Kingdom Come
by mihairu7
Summary: Priscilla's a cross breed trapped in the Painted World. Argon is the chosen undead that got pulled into the Painted World that comes across an imprisoned goddess. So what's a girl to do when a stranger grabs you and pulls you out of the Painted World with him?
1. Chapter 1

Wind and snow flew about haphazardly within the swirls that decorated the Painted World, it's bruised colored sky momentarily brushed with crisp white as snowflakes continued to thrash and sweep the covered ground beneath. Within the entrance of a pair of rotten doors stood groaning hollows that garrisoned the cold stone walls and littered the snow felled grounds like dead leaves. The wind gave a wail as it squeezed through the gaps and corners of the old tower's that lay broken after many centuries and bled plethora's of undead than ran out from its fallen barricade's, staining courtyards to a crusty maroon.

Above the stairs and roofless homes were perched beasts in man's image. Half crow- half man what cawed eerily atop the curled stairwell of a great cathedral. Their black eyes searching, gazing, roaming the barren surroundings for fresh prey that would never come. One of the feathered beasts jumped from their plinth's, gliding gracefully and landing near the framework of a dilapidated house. It's inhabitants barely stirred from their positions standing guard for any intruders, bloated bodies of poison and mucus breathing in the freezing air that its painted winter brought.

The breeze played with a stray shard of glass from a broken window. The blizzard around it lifted the transparent material like long, icy fingers that flicked it outside as one would a coin. Out it went, passed the hollows who held lit touches, round those hanging from the stone ledges and through the snowy balcony that lead to a vast, cracked bridge. It was quiet there. Empty. The only sound to be heard was the howling sky and the sharp _tic-tic-tic_ of the glass shard on the ground that quickened its bounce with the aid of another gust of frosty wind.

The shard came to a slow stop before rebounding off a meaty body with a dull _tuc_. The body itself was purplish in color - rotten and dead, yet alive and breathing. A gigantic dragon, cleft in twain, sat against the broken half of the upper bridge that led to a small domed balcony. It stared outward with the holes it had for eyes towards the barren opening before it. Its breath let out wisps of purple gas, and what flesh that remained upon its old skull dribbled putrid saliva from decayed jaws that dripped down, melting the snow with an almost inaudible hiss as it corroded the stone beneath. Another guard that stood ever watchful in this misery of a world shrouded by white snow that appeared more menacing than it did pure.

Below, on the lower bridge, partially damaged on the left, stood a platoon of hollow undead. The wind blew fiercest down there, biting into the shriveled skin of the soldiers, their loincloths doing nothing to shield them from the anger of the darkened sky. Yet the platoon stood unperturbed and stared away from the domed opening behind them, over a dozen pairs of red eyes staring at the pair of looming oaken doors which would never open. Towards the end of the bridge stood a tall figure dressed in clean iron that blocked the way to a dense fog gate behind him. A wall shield decorated with scratches and a faded insignia was held in his left hand while his right brandished a grand mace. A Berenike Warrior. One that stood as the last line of defense toward the fog gate that loomed above them all. He too stood firm, unaffected by the wind that barely made his frame sway. Hollowed gaze fixed on the closed oak of the cathedral's back door. Waiting, anticipating, expecting a foe that would never appear… or so they _thought_.

At the center of the lower bridge, dropped down another figure, body masked by its surroundings and the sound of its fall softened via sorcery spell. A nearby hollow swiveled its head around slowly, regarded the sound for a moment, and turned its head to face forward again, uninterested by the sudden sound. The figure walked by the smaller hollows as the air shimmered slightly around it before it stepped around the Berenike Warrior, unnoticed. The figure glanced around quickly, and placed a transparent hand through the fog, and then an arm, until it completely phased through to the other side of the domed balcony.

* * *

The figure sighed out in relief, gazing at his gloved hand that became visible again as his spell dissipated, leaving behind the appearance of a dark- haired man, clothed head-to-foot in black leather. He raised his right hand to remove the gray ring from his forefinger, the etched shape of a sleeping dragon glinting in the pale moonlight as it slid off his hand before he placed it within a pouch on his hip.

He had made it. The first safe haven available in this hellish world from which he could not escape. In truth, it had been his fault for approaching the humongous painting within that vast hall, dismissing the reason for all the guardians in white stationed with sharp daggers, and letting his curiosity get the better of him. He hadn't known what to expect after seeing the _actual_ Painting of Ariamis in the flesh - or rather canvas.

He had not, for one, expected the vast height of the portrait itself, that took up almost a third of the wall's height and cast a shadow so tall it would have loomed over any god that had ever existed. The artwork of the painter, Ariamis, was also a sight to marvel at. A painting that captured a desolate city - old as it seemed - crumpled by the assault of Winter and filled with terror as the winds bashed against the now flimsy barricades and walls as the sky above swirled ominously as if the Abyss itself had been poured into it.

Yet, above all the unexpected scenarios the chosen undead had faced - and he had faced many - he had _not _expected the canvas to latch onto him and _pull_ him into that cold and desolate world. What had baffled him more was that when he had tried to leave by jumping off the broken wooden bridge he had landed on in attempt to be resurrected at the bonfire in Anor Londo, he had died, lost all his souls and humanity, and then been resurrected at a bonfire _inside _the very same painted world.

For all the unhollowed undeads strategizing and planning, he couldn't fathom how or why he came to arrive in another world as equal to the other in terms of misery and death. What, exactly, did he have of such value that the canvas would seek him out? He doubted he'd find that out just yet.

Now, however, he had made it finally. He had reached then end of the city of what he had hoped would lead to a portal out of this damnable world or at least a passage toward Anor Londo, which was a place that was even more difficult to get _in_ than actually leave. His body was beaten, bruised like the purple sky above, poisoned by those bloated bodies with torches and bleeding from the deep, jagged wounds that undead dragon had inflicted on his person. He hurt like hell, but he was alive. Alive and safe. He breathed another sigh of relief, watching as the air he blew out frosted into a thin steam that left his masked mouth and flew away with the blizzard around him. At least now he could take a very well-deserved rest.

"Thou art a trespasser in this land, human."

Dammit.

"Why hast thou'st cometh to the Painted World?" A soft, but firm voice spoke a few meters from his position near the fog gate. "Art thou another that hath cometh to slay and murder like the many before thou? If so, thou wilt find no victory here."

He lifted his head toward the voice that spoke to him and found his eyes widening behind his porcelain mask. In the epicenter of the domed balcony, stood a tall woman. No - not a woman - a goddess. Her skin was pale and turned silver in the moonlight that pierced through the dark sky above them. She was tall, extremely tall, as most gods in Lordran were, and stood two and a half times his height. Her body was covered in crisp white fur that lined her arms, shoulders and hands and upon her abdomen rested an icy blue gown that clothed her wanton figure and voluptuous bust. Her hips stretched the gown slightly, outlining her curves as her pale feet rested gently against the snow-covered ground of the balcony. In her hands rested a scythe fit for a giant sentinel. Her finger nails pointed into small claws and the undead noticed scales on the back of her neck and hands. He blinked and gazed again to see a slender, fluffy tail poke out from her tailbone that curled in on itself on the ground.

The undead swallowed thickly as he gazed at her pale face, framed by white braided hair that cascaded down her spine and tucked behind her ears. Her beauty left a lump in his throat that prevented him from replying. Her eye's transfixed him most, however, warm, yet cold slitted eye's colored moss green with flecks of yellow in them, akin to a great dragon's. His thoughts travelled for a moment as he regarded the goddess before him.

Not a proper goddess then, but a half breed.

"Art thou mute?" He blinked again, mind brought back to the woman in front of him. He noticed her grip on that terrifying scythe tighten. Thinking would have to wait.

"Ah… no," he started, taking a pained step forward. The cold biting into his wounds that was slowly forming a puddle of his life essence at his feet. He didn't have much Estus to spare either. He couldn't heal himself if the situation called for it.

"The blood of the peoples of this world drip from thine blade, human." She stated to him, the octave in her voice raised as her white eyebrows narrowed. "Thou wilt shed no more from this point."

The chosen undead felt the weight of his sword in his hand and let it fell from his hands with a loud clatter. The blood that dripped from his fingers tainting the steel from grey to crimson. He wouldn't be able to survive another battle in his condition. He knew. The goddess in front of him saw him as a threat, and quite frankly he didn't disagree. The amount of blood that coated him - half from his enemies and the rest his own - didn't paint a picture of someone docile.

He gave a halfhearted laugh on shaky knees. The half breed thought he wanted her head. He just wanted to rest _his_ head. She would kill him now and he'd be resurrected at the entrance of that bloody bridge again, forced to make the perilous trek back here. He doubted his chances of managing it. After he found that corpse of a servant of Velka in that crumbling room, he didn't think he would make it as far either. It was most astonishing that he had actually made it to the _end_ of the city. He was a goner now.

No. Wait a moment. These weren't his thought's, it was the blood loss talking.

He breathed out deeply again and took another step towards the tall goddess, his body giving up on him, yet he powered through it. He had to leave this place. He was already here! Just a few simple words to disarm any thoughts of battle from the half breed and he would be gone from here. He had to _try_.

"No… please. I… I don't wish to f-fight." He stuttered out. The goddess' eyebrows relaxed after a moment of silence and she relaxed her tense shoulders.

Good. It was working, he could do this. Just a little further.

"Then why has thou cometh to this land? What dost thou seeketh?" She asked him, hand still at the ready with her scythe but motionless.

"I… I seek…"

He could feel his consciousness slipping, the balcony around them dimmed and he saw nothing but blackness and the beautiful half breed in front of him.

His legs trembled under his weight and blood violently spilled from his mouth, pouring out from behind his mask and creating a larger puddle on the floor. He felt the last ounce of his strength leave him as he fell to his knees. He breathed ragged breaths to try and gain some energy but all it did was drain him further. With a grunt, his face met the soft snow and the last thing he saw was his blood trail away from him only to pool at a set of bare, white and sharp-nailed feet.

* * *

The chosen undead awoke with a muffled grumble from behind his mask. His memory was foggy, but he didn't recall his darksign burning, which meant he was still alive at least. He cracked open his eyes and met a pair of slitted orbs in return. He hummed to himself, they almost looked like the ones on that half breed goddess he saw earlier.

Hold on a minute.

His eyes opened fully, and he tried to lift himself up only for a large, white hand to lay against his shoulder and gently force him to lie back down.

"Thou need'st rest human."

He had no strength to deny her and he dropped back down, expecting to meet the cold ground only to feel warmth against his back and head. He blinked and turned his sideways head, eyes gazing down. It was her tail. He was resting against her tail. He frowned but didn't argue, he welcomed the warmth she offered. His body needed it after all that blood loss.

He felt warmth spread through his chest and stomach and glanced down his front to see her hands coated in a warm light pressing against his body.

"What are you-"

He began before freezing and letting out a long sigh of relief at the feeling of the pain ebb away and his wounds knit themselves back together. He felt strength fill his person again and glanced back up as the half breed spoke.

"Hush." She said, and he was silent. Her eye's shifted from their gaze on his mask back to his wounds.

He said nothing as her hands travelled from his chest to his shoulders and back down, towards his legs, healing him. It felt amazing as he lay there basking under the glow of her outstretched hands and he pondered for a moment. She was healing him, but it didn't feel like a miracle of healing or any of the other healing scriptures he knew or felt before. This light was different from anything he had felt before. It didn't just heal his wounds like a miracle did and feed him with power like a swig from his Estus flask, it was like she was literally _breathing_ life into him. The silence between them continued until she was done with her healing and she lifted her hands away from him to rest in her lap as she knelt next to him, blocking the wind from whipping against his torn leather armor.

"I hath healed thou but rest awhile longer."

Her eyes returned to stare through his mask. She did it so intently that he thought she was enjoying his presence.

"Uh-huh," he started, blinking at her, "thank you… for healing me."

"It was not an issue. Thou hath been grievously wounded, no doubt from the undead dragon upon the bridge." She replied, the end of her tail slapping the ground gently.

The chosen undead looked at the appendage with an eyebrow raised. Maybe she _was_ enjoying his company, "yes, as dead as it may be, it's attacks still found its way passed my shield."

"Besting a dragon with flimsy iron is never a smart plan, human."

"Argon."

"Pardon?" He saw her eyes widen, as if he had given her a bouquet of roses.

"My name is Argon. Not human."

The goddess' lips turned upwards slightly as she stared at him before speaking again.

"Argon," she repeated, as if testing the word on her tongue, "tis a pleasure to meet thy."

Argon nodded, slowly getting up from the comfort of her warm tail and standing. She copied his actions, lifting her scythe with her as she rose.

Argon stared at the half breed goddess again. As a man, and human, he considered himself to be a few inches taller than the average man, standing at proudly 6 feet and 3 inches. Though not quite as tall as some of the enemies he faced, or the Silver and Black Knights of Lord Gwyn that were easily double his height, he was proud of his stature. Yet as he stood in front of the goddess before him, having to crane his neck skywards just to meet her eye's, and step a few feet away to see her face clearly, he truly felt the meaninglessness of it all.

"I am Priscilla, keeper of the Painted World."

Argon thought of the horrors he had faced since his time arriving in the painted world to the moment he walked through the fog gate and frowned. Something about the way she said that just didn't feel right.

"Keeper…" he mimed out and looked back to the fog gate, "more like prisoner."

Priscilla gave him a said smile, tucking a strand of white hair behind her ear. He knew that smile well. It was the same one he had used all those years ago when with his parents for fleeting moments of time. Before his time undead. Trapped, tortured and forced to act like all was well with the world. Argon, like her, had been imprisoned in the very place he had once called home. He had thought those memories of his were locked away but seeing this half breed, this goddess, had unlocked the door to the visages of anecdotes he'd rather forget.

"However, did thou happen upon the Painted World? Is it not sealed away from souls like thine self?" She asked curiously, "And since thine hath entered into the Painted World, how hath it been possible that thy was not slain by Jeremiah?"

"Jeremiah?" Argon replied with a frown, "you mean the phantom dressed up in yellow with the whip and pyromancy flame?"

Priscilla nodded.

"I kicked him of the cliff he appeared at. That ugly turban of his was the counterweight that made him plunge into the Abyss."

Argon watched her pale green eyes widen in shock before her frame shook uncontrollably with laughter, her hands grasping her sides as gasps took her breath away. He liked the way her smile reached her eyes.

"He does often tend to prefer slopes to plains. I shall have to warn him not to appear there again." She said, a small pleasant smile settled on her face.

"Please do," Argon said before reaching into a pouch that held his bottomless box. The item had come in handy for storing a variety if things he had found along the way from weapons, to materials, to artifacts. He would have to thank the undead merchant if he managed to leave this snowy world. "As for how I got here, I've a feeling it's due to this."

Argon picked up a small doll from the box before returning the storage item to his pouch and approaching Priscilla. The doll was just like any other, made from cotton and stuffing, with the exception that it looked exactly like Priscilla - but perhaps a younger version.

He watched her eyes widen proportionality and her arms outstretch to grasp the doll from his hand. She lifted it to eye level, eye's tearing from some realization before hugging it to her chest tightly, softly sobbing as she remembered a long-lost memory. She looked at him through clouded eyes.

"Where did thou obtain this from?"

"It was with me while I was imprisoned in the Undead Asylum."

"Then… why hath thou gifted it to me?" Her voice was shaky and her shoulder's trembled. Argon could tell that taking asking for it back wouldn't be a wise decision.

"Well I don't have any use for it," he replied, his voice warm as he spoke, "besides, if it was once yours, don't you think I should return it? It's only right."

She gave Argon another one of those beautiful smiles and pressed the doll to her chest tighter.

"I thank-eth thou, how'st should I repay thee?"

Argon smiled beneath his mask and walked towards her, "Well, you can start by telling me how to get out of here. It's been one hell after another in this world of snow and decay."

She nodded solemnly, all informality gone and motioned for him to follow her to the walkway behind her. Argon followed, taking in the view of the dark forest beyond that blocked out all sight of the horizon like a boundary of blackness. They stopped at a sudden drop that held a stream of dark water below a long, _long_ fall. Argon frowned and turned his head to Priscilla.

"So, I just jump?"

Priscilla nodded, "A portal to thine dimension lieth beneath. Thou need'st only leap…"

They stood in silence for a period of time before Argon cleared his throat, breaking them from their respective thoughts and straightening.

"Well… thank you, Priscilla. I wouldn't have made it out of here if you hadn't healed me and not attacked me. It's refreshing after fighting so many undead."

The half breed gave him another sad smile and took a small step back, leaning on her scythe as she watched him go, "I am glad I hath met thy, Sir Argon. May thou findeth what thou seeketh."

He nodded to her with a heaviness in his chest. It was one thing to be the one imprisoned and tortured in your homeland, it was another thing to know what it was like and _leave_ someone in his prior situation behind. He glanced at his broken Crest shield and cracked Astorian straight sword with a nostalgic smile. Those armaments had taken him so far since his departure from the Asylum. Now, here they lay, broken and mangled, unsalvageable even if he had given it to the giant blacksmith. At least it would be able to rest here, unaffiliated with the new set of horrors Argon would undoubtedly face along his journey.

He glanced at Priscilla one more time, the beautiful half breed staring back with a sorrowful smile. He was partly glad that peculiar doll had landed up in his cell. It had brought him to this hellish world, yes, but more so it had allowed him to meet someone that knew his pain, that felt his anguish and burned with the same flame to be _free. _His heart grieved at the thought that he couldn't give her what she had so easily given him. A way out…

_Wait… wait just a goddamn moment…_

Argon turned his body back to Priscilla and she frowned at him, not understanding the hesitancy in him.

"What art wrong, Sir Argon?"

"That doll was what allowed me to traverse this world, yes?" He asked breathlessly.

"Y-Yes… it hath ties to me, which in turn bound you to the Painted World." She replied, slowly explaining it to him. She furrowed her eyebrows further when she heard him laugh.

"I do not understand why thou rejoice-eth…"

Argon laughed even harder and spread his arms out wide as he spoke.

"Don't you get it? With that doll as the effigy to assist in crossing this dimension, it means anyone holding the doll can leave this accursed world!" He strode to Priscilla's side, grasped her larger hand in his, casing her cheeks to dust themselves with red, and began to pull her towards the ledge, "it means you can _leave _with me."

Her eyebrows shot up to her forehead and he suddenly jumped, pulling her with him and she let out a scream as they fell towards the portal. She tried using her scythe to dig into the stone wall behind them to stop their fall, but the momentum was too great and her scythe so sharp it split the stone in two, breaking the great rock, ejecting her scythe out as they fell faster, the wind rushing passed her face.

She tried to swallow back her tears but failed as she wailed, the fear of death filling her as they plummeted towards the coursing stream below.

_The end is near, I'm going to fall to my death! Foolish undead, what hath thou done?_

She closed her eyes waiting for the hard impact that didn't come.

* * *

**This… is my first Dark Souls fic. I was reading about Priscilla and the awesome fanfics people wrote about then when I thought about an idea. I put it to paper - or rather word document - and watched as it slowly took shape. **

**I wanted to create a proper DS feel that embodies the horror and adventure and stuff while still having a modicum of humility and humor. I kind of messed up with the dialogue between Argon and Priscilla whereby it feels a bit too friendly and childish but hey, trial and error. Also, if I messed up the old-speak, I do apologize. I was - and still am - an A student in English and Shakespearean Literature but I suck at old-speak. I intend on making Priscilla speak modern English however, since most of the NPC's except the god's speak modernly. **

**Anyways, please do R . I'd like your feedback on what you thought about this and any errors I might have made. Like I said before, I like flames, they help improve my stories.**

**Hope you enjoyed, have a swell Christmas and a cheery New Year!**


	2. Chapter 2

**I recently went online just to double check if my description of Priscilla happened to be accurate or not and I see that I've messed up on two parts: firstly, her gown is made of fur and isn't exactly ice-blue, and her hair isn't braided like I thought it was… sorry about that.**

* * *

A lone painting guardian sat against the side wall of the Painting Hall, his once white-gloved hands stained red from the blood that leaked from his side - a wound gifted to him by that leather-clad undead the Painting had taken into its canvas. The guardian glanced round the vast hall, eyes first resting on the fallen chandelier before moving to examine his fallen brethren scattered around the ivory pillars like debris. Blood from their wounds seeped out to act as a shallow pool that would have drowned them, were they not already deceased. The guardian sighed gravely.

His foot absently kicked the hollowed corpse of a long-perished undead warrior to his right. He gazed at the body a moment longer through his arrow-shaped visor to remember the name of one of many undead that had fallen to his dagger's through the years - if under forty undead could be counted as many - and hummed silently in the silent room when realization reached his mind.

Iron Tarkus had been most formidable when he had arrived many years ago. His armour had weighed heavily on him that hindered his agility, which many of the guardian's comrades had used to their advantage to deal critical strikes onto his burnt plate-mail, yet the Berenike Knight had powered through and used that thickly-bladed greatsword to slay a fair number of other guardians. He had almost made it to the painting they were guarding too, using that massive shield as a battering ram that broke his brethren's bones and swatted them aside like pesky flies. Eventually though, The Iron Knight had fallen to the many throwing knives that decorated his back like steel scales and crumpled to the floor, all sanity left dissipating with him as his body died its final death. To honour his valiant effort - a reward rarely given to any undead - the remaining painting guards had left his armour and corpse where it had been slain, as a reminder to the guardians of how strong their adversaries could be and - to the other undead - a warning that they would not easily reach what their eyes lusted for.

But that armour was gone now from Tarkus' body. His shield and sword taken, along with all his armour, by that undead that had so easily slaughtered his brethren and left the remaining guardian mortally wounded. At first the guardian had though the slight simmering of light an error of the eyes, but after said shimmer had assassinated the vanguard guards and sent an invisible throwing knife into the neck of another, it was clearly obvious that the Painting Hall possessed another interloper in its midst. Sorcery was wielded in the foes left hand via a short bone-white staff of broken wood, that had summoned orbs of azure flame to circle around his person like pursuing souls that ripped flesh apart and shattered blades alike. After the undead's invisibility spell had worn off - a spell thought impossible to even think of, let alone conjure - he had hefted an Astorian blade in his hand that had instantly slain his comrades. Damn the Way of White for enchanting those blades. The cuts they made never did heal again.

But what was more troubling to the wounded guardian was that the Painting had accepted him. That wasn't supposed to happen. It was a _painting_ after all. He was certain the rumours that the ancient Ariamis crafting the masterpiece they guarded was just gossip, yet thinking back on the matter, who else, if not that deranged artist, could have created artwork that could pull viewers into its fabricated world, if not his?

The painting guardian grunted as he felt his body numbing his sense of touch. It seemed his time was almost up here in Lordran. No matter… reinforcements would be arriving soon, another would relieve him of his duty and take his place. It was ironic for his line of work, yet the guardian didn't have the energy to laugh. He turned his head lamely as his vision began to dim as well, and for a moment he thought he saw two figures emerge from the Painting's canvas. How strange. It seemed even death had a way of invigorating his fleeting imagination one last time. He smiled wryly behind his hood as his eyes drooped…

* * *

Argon toppled to his hands and knees as they landed back onto the white tiles of Anor Londo's Painted Hall, vertigo grasping at his body after falling through another dimension. He'd thought that after acquiring and using the Lordvessel, he'd be used to the dimensional nausea.

_Guess I was wrong._

He heard a loud _thump_ to his right followed by the clatter of a large object and swivelled his head to see the cross breed he'd rescued moan out in slight pain from the fall. She didn't land on her feet like he did, for her long gown had wrapped itself round her leg and tail, tripping her to the floor again as she tried to stand. Argon allowed a small smile to grace his lips behind his mask. She may be a goddess, but she didn't look graceful in the slightest at this moment.

His eyes caught something in his periphery and he turned, seeing a trail of blood that led to a dead painting guardian, propped up against the wall with a hand to his gut. The undead raised an eyebrow in curiosity, seems he had missed one.

"I… I do not believe my eyes." Priscilla's voice broke him from his pondering and he turned to her prone figure that stood shocked, slitted eye's roaming around the hall, a fascinated glimmer apparent in their depths.

"Have I… truly fled from the Painted World? Or tis it but a dream?"

"If it was a dream, I don't think I would exist in it."

Her head snapped around to Argon, white hair flicking behind her like a frosty wisp of air.

"It is thee," she breathed, her eyes widening further as recognition flickered across her green irises, "then if thou are present hither… thou hath truly freed me."

The cross breed entered a daze, as if struck across cheek before her eye's filled anew with tears that fell down her pale skin.

"I t-thanked thee." She said and wept softly. It was a weeping Argon knew well, like that smile of hers. It vacillated the joy of finally being wrought from shackles thought to be unbroken. He said nothing in reply, instead turning his head to the doorway as a fresh company of painting guardians filled the room like white blood cells to purge a germ from the body they protected.

Argon couldn't stop the grin from splitting his face as he reached into his bottomless box with his thoughts and withdrew a tall silver spear that materialised into his right hand as he made a fist. A small kite shield formed into his left as he paced toward the guardians that had drawn their daggers and pulled their arms back to hurl knives as his person. He was looking forward to another fight against the alabaster-clad guardians. After their last bout, dodging his almost lightning-fast strikes and parrying his thrusts like it was nothing was entertaining to the undead. Now he would be able to fight worthy opponents.

"You can thank my later then, mi 'lady. Right now, I'm in the mood for a proper battle."

* * *

Priscilla could only stare at the tiny man that had not only gifted her with an item from her childhood, but also helped her leave that horrid world of endless Winter and insane hollows imprisoned in the same cage as her. If she had had to think about the Painting Lord Gwyn had sealed her into, it would have been no different from the likes of the Undead Asylum. It was almost like living in a dream when she had opened her eyes after technically falling to her death, only to be greeted by the sun's warmth and the cool ivory tiles of Anor Londo, her true home.

Her eyes travelled to his retreating form, armour still torn and ripped from his encounters in the Painted World, as he prepared to face the painting guardians before them. She had tried to stand up and assist him after his statement to her, but her legs couldn't lift her, and her voice didn't listen. The shock of actually _escaping_ the Painted World had made her body unresponsive. She could only watch as he fought.

His strides were quite long for a human, long and confident that made loud thumps under his boots as he walked forth. She gazed intently as his right thigh tensed before he leaned sideways, thrusting that intricately decorated spear at the chest of a guardian. The blade shimmered as it sped forward, breaking the guardians parry and piercing his shoulder.

_Enchanted. Thou wieldeth a Silver Knight's weapon._

The guardians burst into action immediately after first blood was drawn, strafing Argon and drawing small buckler's, forming a semicircle around him and slowly attempting to box him in. He saw through their plan as he jerked the spear downwards, ripping the guardian's chest cavity open like paper before wrenching it out with a wet _squelch_ and two-handing the shaft, dropping his shield to the ground.

Two of the guardians rushed in, slashing diagonally in unison to create an X-shaped gash in Argon's spine but were sent crashing into their comrade's shield as the undead swept the spear against their legs. He arched the spearhead around him gracefully before slamming it against a nearby guardians shield that made him stumble, and Argon pressed his advantage by snapping the shaft into the foe's belly.

The guardian made a sound as breath escaped him and the undead slashed diagonally, splitting the guardian's in two apart before twirling the spear around and stabbing another in the throat, sending a shower of red around the entrance of the hall.

Priscilla's eyebrow quirked upwards for a moment. He was _good._

A guardian rolled forward passed the spearhead's swing and deftly delivered a double slash of his curved dagger against Argon's flank. The first strike was blocked by the undead, but he wasn't fast enough to dodge the second that sliced across his calf as he rolled sideways. If the cut was deep, it didn't seem to faze him as he charged another of the painting guardian's that twirled on the spot, building momentum as he brought his daggers though the air at Argon. The undead saw it coming however and jumped back at the last moment. The twin blades cut nothing, but air and Argon twisted the spear around him as his momentum carried it across the guardian's chest, forcing him back a step. Argon lashed out with a slash in the opposite direction that cut the guardian's right arm, severing the tendons and making him gasp before the undead twirled his spear a final time and opened a red slit under the guardian's chin. He gurgled blood and died before his head hit the floor.

Argon turned to face the remaining three painting guardians, his porcelain mask splashed with blood. The guardians observed him quietly and strafed him from a safer distance outside the range of his spear. The closest one hurled a throwing knife at him which he dodged, skipping to the left as the second guardian ran and lunged at him with dagger's raised. The undead let him come and lifted his spear almost lazily, watching as the spearhead and prongs bit into the guarding, impaling him airborne. The other two decided to press their opportunity and rush forward.

Argon grunted under the weight of the impaled corpse and opted to fling it from his spear, the body sailing through the air like a ragdoll before crashing into the two guardians and they fell with a crash. Argon chuckled behind his mask, lit a black firebomb and tossed it at the tangled guardians, watching as they caught alit and screamed. The flames burnt them to a crisp.

He let his shoulder's sag a bit as he swung the shaft, flicking blood off the spearhead and prongs as it gleamed wickedly in the sunlight that streamed through the stained-glass windows.

Priscilla blinked as he retrieved his shield and hung the spear on his back, turning to her, attitude indifferent as if he didn't have a care in the world.

"That was fun." He stated to her and sighed in mild ecstasy as a multitude of soul's darted into his body, the sound they made like whirling wind being sucked into a vortex.

She grasped her scythe and stood, fur and skin glowing in the sunlight as she padded towards his smaller form, manoeuvring around the blood on the floor around him.

"Thou fighteth as though a beast hath consumed thy soul."

"It's hard not to when the world is trying to kill you."

"Perhaps, but thou findeth much pleasure in the sight of thine fallen enemies." Priscilla responded as she gestured around the expansive hall, "tis not chivalrous of a warrior like thine self…"

He raised a gloved hand to smooth out the ruffled strands of his dark hair as he thought. A moment passed before he nodded and raised his masked face to look at her. She couldn't see his eye's through the double-slitted eyeholes carved into the mask, try as she might.

"Then it's a shame I'm not a knight or even close to a warrior," Argon replied still staring at her pale features, "perhaps then chivalry would have applied to me the same way it did to these guardian's."

"But if thou art not knighted nor of warrior status, then what art thou?" She pressed, her eye's narrowing in mild confusion and irritation. This undead was ambiguous in his speech, illiterate as it may be, "and what of thine spells? How can'st an ordinary undead manipulate the light to an illusion almost as precise as mine own, and what would'st thou answer to the enchanted jewellery in which thou hath pocketed upon entering my chamber? Truly, what art thou if not one of warrior or knight?"

Argon crossed his arms and stared simply at the cross breed. Head tilting to the side and dark hair hanging like a torn curtain against the side of his head.

"I am simply undead. Nothing more, mi 'lady."

Before she could retort further, the sound of many pairs of feet rumbled along the entrance catwalk and the two glanced at a nearby doorway as more painting guardians entered, armed and waiting. Argon immediately drew his Knight Spear and took a stance.

"More guardians to pique my interest," he said adding a deepness to his voice Priscilla had never heard before, "how _interesting."_

The painting guardians regarded him before glancing at the taller of the two. From their ranks, a guardian gasped in shock, stepping back and whispering out from under his hood:

"Lady Priscilla! How can this be?"

"Balderdash," another said from his side. His hood held silver piping across the visor that marked him as Commander, "the Lady Priscilla was taken many years ago. Here stands an imposter, slay her!"

There was a slight hesitation from some of the guardians, their visored gazes flitting from their commander to the cross breed. Argon turned to gaze at her, the cogs in his mind turning as he watched the interaction take place.

"Why do you just stand their soldier? Erase the imposter from my sight, or have you all forgotten your purpose?" The Commander leered at his subordinate's before shoving a stationary guardian back and drawing his curved dagger.

"Thou art wrong, loyal garrison," Priscilla spoke softly, catching the Commander's attention. "I am the Crossbreed Priscilla, Princess of Anor Londo."

"As I said, impossible. The Lady Priscilla could control the wind around her and freeze the rain with her very breath. If you were she, can you prove your abilities?"

The goddess said nothing, instead raising a pale hand that shifted the air around her. With a twitch if her finger, the air became a swirling blizzard that nipped at the guardian's clothes and frosted his breath. She cut off her magic and the room returned to normal temperature.

"But h-how?" Sputtered the Commander, his subordinate's acting no differently. "We were told you had been taken away from this land, far away."

"Tis the truth, but nay, not far away. Imprisoned in the Painting of Ariamis of which thou and thy ilk protect."

"I-Impossible! My Lord had given us orders to protect the Painting from thieves and-"

"Then the Lord Gwyn hath failed to explain the _true_ importance of thine painting. The hands of Ariamis twas always used to twist the innocence of simple objects, as was his visage of art."

The Commander stuttered again before kneeling, immediately followed by his ivory-clad subordinate's. "Forgive us, we knew not of your Highness's imprisonment. Surely, we would have rushed to your aid immedi-"

"Do not bother with the past, brave guardian," she cut him off gently, smiling that sad smile of her's again, "thou should not have to worry thyself over an abomination."

"Mi'lad-"

"Please, let me leave this place, I hath business to attend to."

The Commander said nothing for a minute until uttering a "Mi'lady", and the ranks of guardians parted as she strode passed them and onto the catwalk outside. As Argon began to follow, the Commander turned his head to him and gazed at the many bodies of his subordinate's that littered the floor before raising his hand to point at the undead.

"Seize that undead!"

The other guardians moved swiftly and surrounded him, four blades pressed against his neck before he could react. One wrong move and he'd resemble a Dullahan. He sighed dispassionately and dropped his spear to the ground where it clattered uselessly against the white tiles.

"Leave him be!" Priscilla bellowed, her voice raising an octave that rattled the sturdy glass above them. The guardians positioned with their blades at his throat hesitated before removing their curved daggers and stepping aside. Argon coolly flicked the spear back up with the tip of his boot and caught it in his grasp, and turned to stare at the Commander who faltered, hands pointing at the blood and bodies on the floor.

"But, Mi'lady, this undead has slaughtered many of our brethren. He cannot be allowed to live!"

"Twas _he_ that rescued me from the Painted World," the cross breed replied calmly as her eye's flickered to Argon, "please forgive him for his actions."

"I... I see," the Commander murmured, "as your Highness wishes." At his signal, the other guardians cleared the way for Argon, some leaving their ranks to neatly lay their fallen comrades along the wall whilst others collected their fallen weapons. They worked like a well-oiled machine as the remaining guardians stood with heads bent to him, hands still gripping at their blades in the case Argon were to pose a threat.

The undead bore them no ill-will, they were just there when he happened to approach the Painting. It didn't matter how many times they had stabbed, cut and sometimes made him bleed almost to death; they had just been doing their duty to protect the Painting at all costs. With a sigh, Argon turned to the Commander and raised a hand to chest level.

"Sorry about all this," he started, and the Commander hesitated for a moment before he shook the undead's hand, "they didn't go easily, however, if its interest's you. You guardians are very… _formidable_." Priscilla flinched as he took that tone again. It went unnoticed to Argon.

The Commander simply nodded but shook his hand a little firmer, before letting go and watching as Argon joined the goddess's side and disappearing as they ascended the spiral platform.

The sun shone upon the Shining City and painted the arch beams bronze as the bright, but warm light made Anor Londo glow in its splendour. Priscilla truly enjoyed the fresh breeze on her face as the warm sunlight melted the coldness from her shoulder's.

"What dost thou seeketh now, Sir Argon?"

"Just call me Argon. I haven't been knighted to be addressed as such."

He was indifferent once again. It frustrated the cross breed to no end. He had appeared to her and treated her with kindness and humour not long ago before they had left her prison and now he acted as if she was nothing more than some unneeded annoyance. Furthermore, what was with his need to degrade himself? It was infuriating to say the least.

"Why dost thou speak ill of thyself?"

"Why do you speak like every other god here? It's odd."

She frowned, "Tis the speech of all beings, human and god. Tis thee that speaketh odd."

"Old-speak is a language not used for many centuries, Princess."

She peered at him through those slits for eyeholes trying to figure him out but failing. He was just too ambiguous, even if his words did ring true with her. The depth of language she spoke was almost ancient compared to the way the Commander of the painting guardians had addressed her. Maybe she _should_ try to speak a tad more modern like her human saviour. It might be possible that others out there in the world were too dense to understand the proper way in which she spoke, should she had conversed with them. It was a wise decision to adapt at this point. With a sigh, she twirled her scythe and followed him as he began to walk towards a spiralling lift.

"Very well, I shall attempt to speaketh like tho- I mean, speak like you do...eth."

"You'll get there in time." He replied, not turning back as he walked inside the spiralled chamber, climbing up a long set or ornate marble steps and waited patiently at a large open space with a hole in the centre of the platform. Priscilla caught up and stood beside him, about to question why they were waiting when she noticed the tall, spiral-shaped iron pillar rotate in front of them for a while before a large ringed dais fitted snugly into the gap in the platform. The cross breed quickly followed him onto it as it lifted them up a deep tunnel, also carved from gleaming white marble.

They stood in silence, Priscilla watching him stand slightly hunched as he lifted a small black sprite in his hands, gazing at it intently for a moment before crushing it in his fist. The sprite burst into a splash of blackness that shot into his body with a hollow sound of deep voices groaning.

She didn't question it as the dais stopped at a large domed platform that spat them out onto clean cobblestoned ground that forked into three directions. Argon wasted no time in striding toward the middle pathway also covered in an entrance of white marble and she followed quietly behind, taking in the beauty of her hometown and enjoying the newfound freedom she had acquired. A smile broke out onto her face as she felt the cool air play with her hair and tug at her gown playfully.

Toward the right and left sides of the forked pathway, she noted the presence of sentinel's clad in shining armour. Priscilla tensed and glanced to Argon. He either didn't notice the giant figures taller than her or didn't seem to care as he started to pick up his pace towards the stairwell that appeared at the entrance to the middle path. He was slightly limping as he walked, and her sharp ears could pick up the almost inaudible pants he let out as they descended the stairs.

She had to hunch over as she entered and noticed how the light inside glowed orange from somewhere deeper in that bounced off the walls, creating a sense of warmth as she descended behind Argon's ragged form. She saw him leap over the last five steps, land with a loud grunt and rush forward. She hurried after him and saw a bonfire lit in the centre of square, marble room; the flames that expelled from the ashes and bones below raising to the ceiling and curling like hot finger's around the coiled blade that rested at its epicentre.

Priscilla caught movement to her right and turned to see a brass-armoured figure leaning against the wall that turned its head as they entered.

"You've returned, I see." The voice was feminine and neutral. She seemed to recognised Argon immediately. The brass-clad woman then regarded Priscilla for a moment, visor raising up and down as she examined the cross breed. "And you've brought company to my bonfire."

_A Fire Keeper then._

Argon ignored her. He rushed to the burning flames and grabbed the hilt of the coiled blade, the flames bursting out around him as he fell to his knees, his other hand reaching down, lifting a handful of flames from the base carefully and squeezing his gloved hand into a fist as an ethereal glow began to surround him.

The cross breed stared out in awe as the flames enveloped him but didn't burn him. Instead, it appeared as if the flames were healing him, renewing him almost. He sighed in relief as his shoulder's seemed to grow slightly. The skin that showed from the rips across his back changed from a dull purple scab into fairer skin, almost as pale as her own.

"You haven't rested for a period of time after hollowing, have you?" The Keeper questioned that sounded more like a statement and Argon made a sound at the back of his throat before reclining on his haunches, nodding at Priscilla to sit. She complied immediately.

"The bonfire I returned to didn't allow me to warp back here," he began, a lot more life in his voice as he spoke, "what's more, I couldn't restore my humanity there. It was a twisted world in its own right."

The Keeper 'hmm-ed'.

"The Painted World is a most vile world indeed."

"Wait, you knew about it?"

"Of course. A Keeper of the Bonfire must know _all_ things within her given domain."

"I'm guessing you wouldn't have told me even if I did ask?"

The Keeper said nothing. Argon sighed again.

"Well, let me introduce you at least", he raised a hand to the cross-breed goddess as he spoke, "this is Priscilla. Princess of Anor Londo. I found her imprisoned in the Painted World."

He looked at Priscilla, the bonfire casting shadows across the white porcelain of his mask. For a split-second she thought she imagined an orange glow behind those slits in his mask. Argon pointed at the Keeper.

"Princess, this is the Fire Keeper of Anor Londo."

Priscilla turned to the Keeper and gave a small smile.

"Tis a pleasure to meet thy."

The Keeper merely pushed off from the wall, stood upright, and bowed before returning her posture to being apart of the wall again.

She heard Argon sigh again and the cross breed turned her head to him. His arms were folded, and he stated at her though his mask.

"Still with that old-speak, huh?"

Her cheeks dusted red that went unnoticed by the undead due to the light cast off from the bonfire that tanned her skin and she replied shyly, not used to the sudden cheeriness he now possessed.

"My apologies Si- Argon. I will try to adapt to this era's modern colloquial."

"That's all I ask." He mumbled and turned to the stairs, noticing the light from the sun dropping down into the horizon. "It'll be dark soon. The Princess requires refuge. I was thinking she could stay here for a while before I continue my journey?"

It was obvious that he was talking to the Keeper. The brass-armoured woman in reply simply shrugged and spoke to the cross breed.

"If you require rest, now is the time. That _is_ what the Bonfire is for."

Argon snorted behind his mask, obviously humoured by her reply before the Keeper strode toward the base of the stairwell. "I have a task to do anyways." She said and left them, her clinking armour growing fainter and fainter until it was replaced by the whistling wind and crackle of the bonfire.

The events after the Keeper's departure were brief at best. The cross breed had said she wanted to watch the sun set and Argon had waved her off, stating he needed to mend his armour and weapons as well as manage his souls for reinforcement - whatever that had meant.

The sky had erupted into an array of different blues, reds and yellows as the sun slowly dipped into the ground as the bright moon rose to take its place, bathing the Shining City in silver moonlight. The cross breed admired how much more beautiful the moon looked here as opposed to in that hellish world but missed the glorious rays of the morning sun that warmed her soul and eased her mind.

After the last flicker of bright light had faded from view and the breeze had turned cooler, the goddess had returned to the safe haven, bare feet slapping against the cool marble as she descended to a warmer area. As she reached the last step and looked out at the room around the bonfire, her eyes caught the sight of Argon as he began to replace that porcelain mask of his.

His skin was pale, almost blue in complexion. His face was angular, with high cheekbones and a square jaw that didn't have a trace of stubble. There were deep lines carved into next to the bridge of his nose and there were light rings under his eyes. He had an ordinary nose that fit well with his pink lips, straight and narrow. His brows were as dark as his hair. What took her by surprise though were his irises. Deep amber orbs reflected against the flames as he pressed his mask against his face, securing the clips along the side and adjusting it slightly so that he could see through those slits he had for eyeholes.

It took him awhile before he noticed her and called her over to sit. She turned her gaze to a large bed roll, twice the size of his, neatly set against the opposite wall. She thanked him before settling into the roll, propping her scythe against the wall.

"I've been meaning to apologise to you." He said, and she gazed at him. She noticed the gashes in his leather armour were mended now, and the small nicks his Silver Knight Spear possessed had all but vanished from sight, as if it were forged anew.

"Oh, you have?"

"Yes," he replied, sighing softly as he rested his back against the wall, watching the flickering flames of the bonfire, "back at the Painted World I was cheerful, exuberant."

Priscilla nodded.

"I was still half-hollow back then. My darksign had triggered the undead side of me after dying so many times without being able to revitalize myself with a shard of humanity." He gestured to a small black sprite in his hand that writhed like a lit candle in his palm. He crushed it like he did the other and his body absorbed it before he continued.

"When I met you, an actual living, _responsive_ being other than myself, the side of me that was alive triggered again."

"You mean to say that the reason for thy- for _your_ coldness in the Painting Hall was due to the influence of the darksign tainting your sanity?"

Argon nodded vigorously, "I wouldn't have lost my sanity if I hadn't rested at this bonfire, but my _mind_ was losing the memories of my former self. During the time we left the Painted World and up to the point where we met the Commander of the painting guardians, memories of a slightly… darker time resurfaced." He said, gaze never leaving the flames in the centre of the room.

"And that was the reason for the ill words spoken against your person?" She enquired, eye's glinting as she stared intently at the chosen undead.

"A darker version of me, yes. A side that favoured aggressiveness over all else." He muttered to her and raised his head, facing her.

"The curse of the Darksign is unlike any other. It can warp one's mind beyond insanity, and as such, it's a good thing undead like myself are locked away in that Asylum in the North."

"Surely not as horrible as being a cross breed, I assure you."

"Having a scaleless dragon for a father is a tough break, I must agree with you."

Her eye's widened at his reply.

"H-How? Whence did thou find out?"

The chosen undead merely chuckled behind his mask. "Still stuck with that old-speak, I see." He got up and walked to his bed roll, easing himself into it and turning to face the wall.

"Get some rest, Princess. We can talk more in the morrow."

"Priscilla." She replied softly.

"My apologies, what was that?" He tilted his head an inch in her direction.

"Please refer to me as Priscilla."

"Priscilla," he mimed, rolling the word around in his mouth slowly.

"As you wish," he said, not turning back.

"Priscilla it is."

* * *

**I must say, I'm really enjoying how this is turning out. At first, I just wanted to make a simple one-shot of it but looking back at the title and how the first chapter ended, I figured I just couldn't do that to all of you.**

**I meant for this chapter to go a tad further, with Argon taking Priscilla back to the illusion of Gwynevere before I ended it, but… it just didn't happen.**

**For those of you wondering, our MC will have a partner in his undead mission now (however, I'm not sticking to the Canon version. Otherwise what's the point of this being a _Fanfiction_).**

**Please R , I'd love to hear your thoughts, question's, and flames - although I also accept praise… I'm not _entirely _masochistic. (*awkward laugh)**

**Thank you for reading. Merry Christmas and have a great New Year!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for the typo's in the previous chapter, I aim for a story without textbook errors, but as the true meaning of the pokemon song goes, you really _can't _catch 'em all. Damn you Darkry…**

* * *

Priscilla had woke with the morning sun, a light trail of drool hanging from her pouty lips as her groggy eye's cracked open to view her surroundings. At first she had frowned, wondering why the Painted World had even a smidge of sunlight for a city forever oppressed by Abyssal clouds and a gloomy moon; then she had raised herself to rest on her haunches, pondering on how exactly it was possible for her drool to liquify in the harsh blizzard, before shooting upright from her comfy bed roll with owlish eyes the size of gargoyle shields as realization sucker punched her into reality. The gasp that had flitted from her mouth like a stray spirit escaping containment, had stirred both Argon and the Firekeeper from their conversation, causing them to turn their masked faces toward the cross breed. To say her face had taken a hue almost equivalent to a ripe tomato would have been a crass understatement.

The rest of the morning had gone by faster than anticipated. The Firekeeper had taken the cross breed away from the bonfire, stating that even in times like these, a lady should still have the privileges of bathing at her disposal. The brass Keeper turned her gaze to Argon, who was too busy reading from an old tome to hear her, before leading the goddess to a secret spring deep within the abandoned lower city of Anor Londo.

The spring looked as if it had burst from the crarved stone itself, spilling its glistening waters into a large trough it had created that overflowed and left what looked like a miniature stream below it, running through the southern part of the lower city like some sort of blue bloodstream. The Keeper had stood watch while she bathed and dressed, before guiding her back toward the bonfire, her bronze armour lighting up the shadowed pathways and lifts like a life-sized firefly. They had arrived at the slowly burning fire only to notice the absence of a certain undead, and the Keeper had muttered under her breath before placing an enormous tray of assorted cooked meat at Priscilla's feet. Where the tray had suddenly appeared from and why she was being served at all took second place to the goddess' growing hunger.

"You will need your strength if you are to accompany the chosen undead," she said, her voice as neutral as ever. "Please eat, Mi'lady."

Nothing of importance had been exchanged while Priscilla ate and the Keeper, well… stood, motionless at her place against the wall. The silence that had enveloped the two wasn't unpleasant and Priscilla had revelled in the juciness of the red meat laid out on the tray before her, the spiced and salty taste merged with the tender flesh filled her senses with pleasure as her tail slapped against the floor rhythmically. Her finger's stained with sauce and her face an image of bliss.

This was the face Argon had first seen after warping into Anor Londo, a large sack slung over his shoulder.

At first he had assumed there was another mimic near the bonfire, mistaking the stains on her mouth for blood and her sharp fangs for the ones adorning those menaces. It was only after his tunnel vision had abated and the room had come into focus, did he recognise the cross breed in front of him with her cheeks stuffed like a squirrel. A chuckle escaped his lips and she turned her head his way, slitted-eyes wide in panic.

The Firekeeper raised her head and glanced at the two of them stuck in staring limbo for what seemed to drag on for a few minutes. The goddess had her mouth full of the meat she had given the her and the cross breed's slender fingers were a mess of sauce and marinade that dripped onto her clean gown and stained the floor with the sticky substance. Her face was a picture of abstract horror as she flushed a shade of red staring at the Chosen Undead. As for Argon, he seemed to be enjoying her embarrassment, going as far as to laugh at the goddess' predicament which made the cross breed redder, if that were even possible. The Firekeeper felt for the Princess; being caught devouring a meal like an animal by anyone would be embarrassing but being caught pigging out by your _savior_ of all people was the last nail on the coffin, so to speak. It was an uncomfortable scenario for any lady, herself included. Then _again_, it wasn't entirely Argon's fault… being a lady - one of royalty no less - one would expect her to eat in moderation. Or perhaps her feral eating was _because_ she was a cross breed? Nevertheless, the Keeper thought it would be wise to speak up now. The Princess seemed to be on the verge of uttering - or rather stuttering - something out with a mouthful of meat. It would only cause her to make a bigger fool of herself.

"Mi'lady, perhaps you should swallow first _before_ you speak." She said with the same neutrality she always did.

Again, the goddess burned red before complying, the sound of her throat sucking in the meat echoing around the square room before going silent as she continued to stare at the amused undead. His shoulder's trembled slightly and he chuckled again, only louder this time and walked to the other end of the room, dropping the sack on his should with a loud _clang_.

He turned to the cross breed and gazed at her face, to her hands, down to her tray of meat and back up to her face before he finally spoke.

"I know I haven't said this before," he started and raised a gloved hand toward her. "it's a pleasure to _meat_ you, Princess."

The Keeper simply sighed and shook her head as Priscilla covered her face with her messed fingers and groaned, blushing in embarrassment as Argon's laugh filled the air.

* * *

After Priscilla had gotten over her embarrassment, finished eating, thanked the Keeper and departed from the bonfire with Argon, the sun had climbed higher into the sky, outlining the clouds with gold and paving the cobblestone with a spectacular polish. The pair had travelled down the ringed elevator and crossed the bridge to the tall steps leading to the castle before Argon had begun to speak again.

"I've managed to open the main entrance to the castle, however, you might want to prepare yourself. The guards and soldiers that stand garrison aren't as docile as they appear from afar."

She nodded to him as they ascended the clean stairway; the sides of the wide stairway shaped to accommodate smaller persons of general height whilst the centre was designed with large steps, equal to two feet in height, to allow larger beings, like Priscilla to traverse. They had almost reached the top before Argon had placed a hand on her gown, motioning for them to stop as he crouched down and hefted that sack of his from earlier out of his bottomless box. They were extremely handy for storing just about anything and they were small enough to be carried around one's person within a simple pocket or pouch. They were so handy that she was starting to think that she needed one as well.

Her emerald eyes watched him lift gauntlets, steel leggings, and a breastplate from the sack before dropping it to the tiled stairs below with a clank. He had changed from the black leather he wore the day he saved her in exchange for a light pair of grey leather that looked old and worn, as if it had seen many scuffles in the past. He hummed a song to himself that Priscilla had never heard as he raised the shirt from his chest and dropped it to the floor unceremoniously.

The blush from before once again rose across the bridge of her nose as she watched him undress, eye's focussed intently on the minute nicks and healed cuts that decorated his arms and muscled chest like old tattoo's. If he noticed the hole she was burning into his body with her eyes, he didn't show it; lifting the breastplate up from the stair below and sliding his arms and head through the open holes, latching the clips into place and securing the chainmail underneath.

He did the same with his trouser's - which the cross breed had had the decency to turn her nosebleeding face away from - and the gauntlets before he gave a satisfied sigh, nodding at the way the armour glinted in the sunlight before looking up toward Priscilla, head tilted to the side.

"What are you doing with your face?"

"W-What do you m-mean?"

His head tilted to the other side.

"Your nose is bleeding and you look as though you're running a fever. Are you feeling well?"

She turned her gaze back to him, cheeks still red, nose wiped of blood. She was pouting at him again, fangs peeking out from under those large lips. Argon had the urge to laugh, she looked rather adorable like this.

"I am fine, but perhaps you could tell me in advance before you undress in front of me!" Her face was burning like the sun now, as red as its epicenter.

The masked undead stared at her for a long moment.

"Oh." He said.

Another moment passed between the two of them.

"Oh…" he said dumbly again before it finally clicked.

"Ohh… sorry. I didn't even think about that while I was changing. I'll… I'll remember to warn you in future."

"That is all I ask." She replied with a shy smile, her eye's shifting to the side timidly.

"Anyways, we'll have to go through the sentinel's guarding the entrance, as well as the Silver Knight's stationed throughout the halls beyond."

She nodded and looked at his armour, shinning silver that reflected her image back at her like a human-shaped mirror. His cape fluttered behind him as if he were the hero so many maidens spoke of from fairytales and his long black hair stroked against the shoulderplates gently. He rested the same sliver spear from before on his back, along with a matching shield decorated with carvings that dipicted a flowing river.

"Where did you acquire a Royal Knight's armour and weaponry from?"

"I claimed the spear and shield from a commander I slew with much difficultly." He said, drawing a hulking bow, the height of himself from his side. "the armour I found in a chest guarded by a pair of officers' with similar spears." The bow's weight made his arm shake slightly as he planted it onto the ground.

Argon knocked an arrow, the length of his arm, into the bow and drew back the drawstring, a metallic creak echoing through the air as he took aim at the sentinel on the left.

"I figured that it wouldn't go to waste on me rather than collecting dust in a chest for eternity."

She watched the dragonslayer arrow leave the bow almost in slow motion, as it sailed through the air, it's hexagonal arrowhead causing the air to ripple around it as it sped forward, impaling the sentinel's head against the wall with a giant screech of metal against metal, followed by a sickening _crunch_ as the arrow broke through flesh and bone and pieced the wall behind the giant garrison. The sentinel dropped his halberd and shield, its tower-like body hanging limply from the wall like an iron puppet.

His companion shifted his gaze, taking a step that caused the ground to rumble and caught the sight of his fallen partner. A deep rage seemed to overcome the giant sentinel as he turned toward the stairwell and saw Argon and her, before it began bounding towards them, halberd swinging around his head.

Priscilla raised her scythe protectively, ready to deflect the sentinel's oncoming attack but heard another dull clap before the second sentinel's head was also impaled against the wall. A large patch of blood marking the area the sentinel was hit before death took him. She turned her eyes back to Argon as he lifted his bow from the ivory step and swung it to his side before it puffed out of his hand like smoke, set back into his bottomless box.

He panted loudly and rested his hands on the step, clearly winded from firing that massive bow. She waited for him to gain his strength back before speaking.

"Now that we're finally here, I haven't had the chance to ask," her soft voice broke the silence and he turned his visored gaze to her. "what do you intend to find here?"

He looked at her for a moment, a habit of his that seemed to make her more anxious the more time he spent doing it.

"To re-establish my fate," he said finally and her eyebrows furrowed.

"We're here to see Lady Gwynevere."

* * *

The chosen undead hadn't said much after that, instead opting to adopt a serious persona as the pair moved through gleaming white corridors and battled the Silver Knight's that dotted the vast halls and intricate staircases like polished mantelpiece's. The first few they had encountered were taken down by Argon, his pronged spear taking off chuncks of armour and tearing across unguarded throat's as his bright shield blocked sword strikes that rattled against his gauntlet and shook his core. These knight's were well trained and fierce, though never uttering a word, and their strikes dealt terrifying damage. Argon knew too well how devastating a chain of attacks from one of those stoic knight's could be when they found an opening, it was those strikes that had caused him more than his fair share of deaths; reviving him at a bonfire empty and agitated with both a loss of soul's and humanity he could not restore or get back again.

Those deft swings were the reason for the armour he wore. Though it may have aggravated the knight's that had engaged him in battle, it was necessary for his survival, and the masked undead smiled from behind his porcelain mask as one of those deadly silver swords scraped against his body, not even leaving so much as a scratch in his breastplate. Were the armour not so heavy, Argon would have considered wearing it for the remainder of his journey. It just defended him from so much!

Argon skipped back as the Knight's blade whizzed in front of his mask before he dived forward. He raised the spear above his head and thrust it downward at the last moment, grunting loudly as the spearhead met exposed chainmail and parted the Knight's arm from his shoulder. Sparks and blue light burst from the point of impact and blood sprayed the floor, the arm slapping against the ivory tiles heavily. The Knight dropped to his knees, staggered, but not giving up. Damn, these guys were persistent. And why the hell didn't they make a sound? He had just cut the guy's _arm_ off. Didn't that cause a person to at least shout - maybe scream in agony? Or maybe it was just Argon who wasn't that resistant to pain…

_Pfft, yeah right._

He tore the blade from the Silver Knight's shoulder, spun and stabbed at his chest, impaling the taller foe where he kneeled. In an instant, a monstrous cry came from behind the Knight's helm as his body broke apart in a multitude of white specks before exploding in a burst of light, his accumulated souls rushing into Argon as his sword clattered to the floor.

_At least they say _something _when dying by crying out in anguish. Wait, now I sound like a psychopath… screw you brain._

It was the third one to fall to the undeads spear in the warmly lit chamber he and Priscilla had the misfortune of blindly walking into. They had been fine, slaying the lone knight's that had wandered into their path while on their patrols of the castle. It hadn't been much of a problem then. One of them would see the pair, draw their sword, and rush them in that predictable way the others had and would eventually fall to either spear or scythe. One knight had even gone as far as to pelt them with dragonslayer arrows from a balcony as they approached, peppering the walls with gigantic arrows that looked more like miniature monolith's with sharpened points.

Encountering five Silver Knight's in a small and enclosed room was a trouble they had not anticipated. They had attacked the two of them in sync, two Knight's at the vanguard slashing in opposite directions to confuse and break their defense, one in the centre to act as the piledriver that landed a lucky shot, and the last two at the rear for support, their annoying shields causing Argon's spear to rebound off of and make him stumble back.

The assult was well devised and they worked like a well-oiled machine, however, not even they had expected the larger one of the pair of interlopers to lift her companion by the back of his armour and fling him across the room like a shiny javelin, knocking over the three in the rearguard like the cross breed was playing a game of primitive shot-put. It had been Argon's plan, of course, as unorthodox as it was; and it had worked in distracting the Knight's long enough for him to slit the throat of the first downed soldier, bash the brain out of the second with his own shield before facing the second in a fair duel. Needless to say, the Silver Knight's weren't a match for the seasoned undead that had had his fair share of unequal fights leading up to his second time traversing the great walls of the shining castle. He still hadn't forgotten those two cowardly archer's that had killed him over four times before he had finally managed to kick them off their perches and send them hurtling to their doom.

Argon leant against the shaft of his spear and turned towards the direction of Priscilla and the vanguard Knight's she had chosen to face. He wasn't one to brag about his skills on the field of battle, being the jovial undead he was, but he certainly knew how to appreciate one's technique and skill with a blade when it was clearly visible. As another human being, he had been taught the stance of a swordsman, the way to aim like a true marksman and the efficiency of hand-to-hand combat of a brawler. His fighting-style was dirty, aimed to win, no matter the method. It wasn't the case, however, when he saw the gracefulness of his tailed companion.

With her size daunting even the likes of the famed and feared Silver Knight's, she moved with the agility of a cat, dodging swings with barefoot side-steps and skipping past thrusts like they were stray droplets of water. Her scythe arched around her frame beautifully, making the air shimmer as her Life-Hunt ability sucked life out from the Knight's body, the sharpened blade parting his chainmail and armour as if it were paper. The blood that touched her blade barely even remained as it rolled off the gleaming edge and fell to the floor, as if it was repulsed by the very presence of the soldier's life essence. It took her less than a minute to cleave the second Knight's head from his shoulder's, the sound of the helm bouncing of the ground with a metallic clang resounding around the room for a moment. He watched as she twirled her scythe a final time before resting the blade behind her, trailing next to her tail like some ethereal reaper dressed in white.

She caught him staring and gave a shy smile back. He would have been lying if he said his heart hadn't pumped faster at the act.

They made their way through the next set of corridor's without incidence. There seemed to be no knight's on patrol or even people ordinary people around as they passed the servant's quarters and opened a door to one of the armoury's. The great kingdom of Anor Londo was truly void of life, save for the loyal Knight's that stood in solitude; all that seemed to remain now were these ancient stone walls and vast hallway's.

The silence was also something that seemed to pierce the undead as they walked on towards the main hall. Argon passed a look to his tailed companion, keen eyes noticing her sudden unease. She had been quiet ever since they had entered the castle doors. It wasn't completely unusual in her case, he mused, she was often reserved and silent, as opposed to his verbal diarrhea, but this time it felt vastly different from the other occasions. For one, the silence they shared was usually comfortable. This felt just dull, empty like the many rooms they passed. The second exhibit the smaller of the pair used to prove his point was her tail.

The fluffy, warm appendage that she had used to rest his battered body on top of; the "mood indicator" as he called it, that usually flopped about like a grounded fish whenever she was excited, happy or comfortable. That slapped the floor lightly when she was 'secretly' enjoying something she didn't want him to know. He agreed that he hadn't known her long but in the time they spent fighting, talking and sitting in each other's presence - and due to Argon's uncontrollable inquisitiveness watching her out of the corner of his mask - he had reserved the right to say that he knew her habits fairly well.

As such, when he saw that long, fluffy, warm, cozy, fair-colored, cute looking, body warming, heart thumpingly lovely-

He shook his head violently from side to side.

_Focus dammit._

His point was that her tail wasn't frolicking about like some energetic puppy. Instead, it was curling itself into knots, writhing as if in agony, and twisting like some electrocuted lump of fur. It wasn't that he was creepy, or even stalkerish in his curiosity - he swore - it was just that he was very attentive to the small things.

It was very difficult _not_ to notice her discomfort anyway, when her delicate features were scrunched up in deep pensiveness and her hands were unconsciously wringing themselves as she walked with quicker steps that echoed loudly as they entered the side wing of the main hallway.

Argon shook his head as it continued on. The sound was kind of attracting the attention of the archer on the other end of the hall's wing. He should say something soon.

_slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-_

"Hey Prisc-"

_SLAP_

She snapped her head towards him, broken from her trance before something big and silver shot in between them, puncturing the side of the wall.

_Guess the archer **did** hear her too._

They both turned to the archer in question rearing back another steel arrow the length of his arm against the drawstring, cross hairs fixed on the taller of the two.

She flushed a red and apologised to him, cutely embarrassed.

"Well at least the Royal Sentinel's below didn't catch on, you know what a pain that would be?" He said reassuringly with a small laugh to the flustered cross breed before the floor beneath them rumbled as two sets of giant feet appeared near the base of the stairs to their left.

_What perfect luck you have Argon. Try not to put your foot in your mouth next time!_

The chosen undead simply groaned as he unslung his shield and spear from his back, motioning for his tomato-faced companion to ready herself for another difficult fight…

* * *

"Really, it's okay."

"B-But I was negligent and because of me you were hurt!"

"Now, now, I wouldn't call _this_ an injury worth noting. It's barely a scratch."

"Your entire _shoulder_ is hanging by a few tendons!"

"Barely a scratch if I were _your_ height then. But seriously, stop apologising so much. I mean the pain's not even there anymore."

"Would you allow me to apply pressure to it to be sure?"

"I'd… rather you didn't. That would hurt pretty bad."

"I'm so terribly sor-"

"Not another god-damn sorry from you Missy, I said it's alright!"

Argon pointed an accusing finger at the cross breed, who whimpered meekly in reply, slitted eyes dropping to the ground and wringing her hands in guilt. He imagined make-believe animal ears on her head that drooped over her eye's in shame. Argon almost felt like 'aww-ing' at how adorable the scene looked, or he _would_ have, at least, if the hanging limb to his left would have allowed him without the biting pain that moving brought.

After her tail-slapping had alerted the Royal Sentinel's of their position, and yet another life a threatening fight had ensued, the pair had fought to the death; employing the use of spells, offensive projectile's and the odd groin- kick to incapacitate and then decapitate their foe's. It had all gone smoothly until one of the sentinel's had used that pillar-sized halberd to try and rip Argon a new one in his last moment, cleaving the undead's shoulder from his body to hang like torn fabric. He just couldn't catch a break today.

Argon used his good arm to reach into his side and grasp his Estus flask, an item he was glad he hadn't had to use until now and brought the glowing emerald glass to rest on the floor as he began to remove his mask. He had expected more resistance from the castle's army since his first visit, but was glad that they had reached their destination at least.

He undid the clasps on the mask that bound it to his face before lifting it off gently, resting next to his spear and lifting the rim to his mouth to take a large gulp of the liquid fire within. Argon sighed in pleasure as the elixir did it's job killing the pain and knitting the severed flesh back together, sending warm ripples down his spine that tingled at his tailbone. He replaced the flask to it's place on his belt and turned to smile at Priscilla, amber eye's alive and bright with relief.

"See? All better. Nothing to worry about."

She looked at the healed wound, replaced by a red scar behind his torn silver armour before raising her eyes to meet his, nodding that she heard him and giving him a weak smile. It was clear she still felt guilty for his accident.

With a sigh, Argon sat back, arms supporting his weight as he leaned back. The sun was at it's apex in the blue sky, rays coming through the windows and doors to illuminate the floor like spotlight's around the pair at their place at the foot of the large staircase leading to the throne room. It was the same room he had fought Ornstein and Smough in, with Solaire's help, before reaching the Sunlight Queen's chamber to receive his undead quest.

He lifted a hand to scratch his jaw as he thought. Not much of what the goddess had told him resounded clearly in his mind. He was no idiot when it came to listening and his memory was almost equal to Logan's, but for some reason the events before his time reaching Oolacile seemed foggy. It was as if someone had just thrown dust in his face and he couldn't see around him anymore - like his mind was… blind almost.

But besides the amnesia he seemed to be suffering from, his darksign - at least he assumed it was his darksign - was also beginning to be a problem. It seemed that the more time he spent in his half-hollow form, the more feral his psyche was becoming. He had felt it during the departure of the Painted World after fighting those guardians and he _knew _he had felt it gnawing away at his mind when he was approaching the bonfire in Anor Londo. It had made his thinking grotesque, maniacal, as if he lacked any and all self-control. He remembered how weak he felt, how desperate his body was as he limped towards the inviting bonfire, dropping pathetically to his knees and drawing the flames within himself like a hound thirstily lapping water from a spring. He hadn't liked that feeling of helplessness, nor the sense of insanity that had accompanied it. It made him feel like the man he was before becoming undead. He didn't want to feel like that _ever_ again.

"Let's get going Priscilla." he said, placing his spear back into storage and lifting a silver straight-sword from the box. He figured the sword would help in close quartered fights, so he had taken one from a fallen knight. It wasn't like the poor fellow was going to be needing it when he was little more than exploded atoms anyways.

"Also, I need you tell me why you've been acting so uptight since we entered the Great Lord's domain."

He stood as she widened her eyes at him and took a small step back that was more like the space of a leap he would take.

"How did you…"

"You've been more silent than usual, and your tail's been twistsing in on itself, making you appear apprehensive."

She 'oh-ed' in reply and pressed her fingers against each other tentatively. Argon scratched his jaw again, the itch starting anew before he felt small raised veins spread like spider-cracks along the pale skin through the gloved underside of his gauntlets and frowned, eye's looking to where his hand scratched.

Strange, that hadn't been there earlier this morning, and he didn't recall being hit by some poison or cuse-based spell recently. He reasoned the cause of the odd rash to hollowing.

_Perhaps absorbing more humanity will get rid of it._

"Do you regret leaving the Painted World?" He asked the cross breed, putting his mask back on and climbing the stairs to the throne room, "You did leave behind a few friend's there, including that pyromancer. It's only natural to feel guilty or home-sick, given that you've spent most of your life in that painting."

He turned to her as she ascended the stairs, shaking her head gently, white hair blowing in the cool breeze. When she reached his position at the top, she looked down to him with a nervous smile.

"If I am apprehensive, then it is due to whom we are to meet." She said, gripping her scythe tighter and walking into the expansive room that glowed golden as the sunlight flowed through the colored glass windows. Argon matched her pace.

"You see… Queen Gwynevere is my mother. As such it is only natural that I am not so confident, having not seen her since my exile."

"..."

"Argon?"

"..."

"What is the matter?"

"Oh it's nothing."

"Why were you silent?" She asked, head quirked curiously.

"Your mother is Lord Gwyn's daughter, you say?" He replied, blinking dumbly behind his mask.

"Yes, I did."

Priscilla waited for him to speak. He took a while before finally doing so.

"Huh… that's unexpected," He turned his head to her, "so Seath and Lady Gwynevere…?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, it's just really, _really_ hard to imagine how the Duke and your mother managed to, well… reproduce."

The goddess raised a hand to her mouth to stifle a soft gasp as she blushed crimson.

"I mean Seath _is_ an everlasting dragon… he's _massive_."

Before the undead could say more or his cross breed companion could reply, the pair felt the air around them shift and the room darken considerably. Argon went to draw his sword from it's sheath but was struck by a flash of bright azur energy that flung him across the room, breastplate scrapping against the polished tiles.

"Argon!"

His body burst aflame with searing white pain that blinded him, preventing his arms from listening to his brain when he tried to get back up again. He let out a groan, finger's feebly clawing at the ground.

He heard the sound of bare feet. The rhythmic slapping like that of a panicked animal fleeing from danger, although this set of feet seemed to be drawing nearer as the sound got louder. Argon felt a hand grasp his shoulder and another wrap around his midsection before propping his lame body up to gaze at a fair-skinned face. He gazed at it intently, amber eye's locking onto the white locks of hair and pale scales that peeked out from the back of the figure's neck.

_I know those scales…_

His hearing was nullified for a few moments that felt like hours as his eye's re-focused and the feature's of the person above him reached an acceptable clarity. The worried visage of the cross-breed Priscilla seemed to be awaking enough as he blinked and jerked up into a sitting position, his hearing normalizing as he wrenched the mask from his face and gupled another mouth full of Estus. It was the second time in a short space that he had to rely on the life-saving elixir. His luck was just going south for some odd reason.

The elixir healed his body from the damage the blast had caused and he thanked the goddess holding him up, wiping the blood that dripped from his lips as he did so.

"**Thou art brave but foolish, undead human.**"

Argon whipped his unmasked face around as the voice boomed around the throne room. The sound seeming to come from everywhere and in front of him at the same time. The person behind the voice in question sounded both female and male, as if the person's masculinity had only halfway developed, leaving a prepubescent representation behind.

Argon chanced that the owner of the voice was tomboyish, at best, or perhaps a more feminine boy of youthful age.

_Though age aside, this person's no slouch when it comes power. And what's more, he's a sorcerer too, a skilled one. I'll have to be careful…_

Argon drew his sword and grasped the hilt with both hands, feeling reassured by the weight of a knight's blade as he turned cautiously, ready to leap to the side and run from any other oncoming soul arrow's like that one.

"It cannot be…" he turned his head to Priscilla, still planted in the sitting position from earlier with a look of shock on her face.

"Priscilla," he called in a hushed voice. It seemed to break her out of her shock momentarily as she turned her face to him. "get ready, I'm going to need your help with this person if he intends to strike from the shadows."

Her shoulder's began to quiver as she heard his words and her eyes widened in fear, hands raised toward him in an effort to stop him.

"No! That was no ordinary spell, we must flee. We cannot hope to win against-"

"**How pernicious! Dost thou think'st the God of the Darkmoon would be as cowardly as to strike from the corner's of thine focus, human?"**

The voice sounded closer to Argon as it spoke, and he felt the air shift to his side before realisation hit him, and he swung his blade with a loud grunt.

"**Futile,**" the voice said, as his sword clanged against something hard and metallic that rattled his armour, shaking his brain in his skull before he felt a transparent tendril slam into his back with a force strong enough to send his body careening through the air and crashing into a nearby pillar, "**a pathetic attempt, human.**"

Another groan escaped from the undead as he rose from the floor, using the pillar to anchor his weight and turning to the source of the force that sent him flying. The air seemed to shimmer around a specific spot in front of Priscilla, appearing to be about her height and shifting the air around it by it's feet.

_An illusion of the light then, but different from my own spell. I guess Oolacile didn't come up with Hidden Body on it's own._

"God of the Darkmoon, huh?" Argon panted out, his sword lying in the centre of the room, shimmering in the dim light that permeated them. "then that would imply that you are-"

"**Gwyndolin, son of Gwyn, Lord of Sunlight.**"

Argon flinched as the darkness was purged by a flash of bright light that spat out a tall figure dressed in a pure white gown. A golden crown upon the person's head acted as a visor which shielded the figure's eyes, and from beneath the figure's gown grew silver, slender snakes that slithered, writhed and hissed softly like wisps of fleshy tentacles. The undead's eyes widened in awe as the the figure approached, towering above him with an intimidating presence so great, Argon almost felt compelled to take a knee in respect.

_Male, definitely feminine male._

Dark Sun Gwyndolin stared down at him, right hand grasping a beautiful catalyst that was aimed at him, poised to fire at a moment's notice. Across his back rested a small, golden bow with a bowstring that looked as if it was made from a sliver of moonlight.

"Thine voice betray'eth thine skill, Chosen Undead. Thou hath done well to come thusfar on such a perilous journey as this," the god spoke, his voice regulating to that of normal sound, "but thou hath committed an act of misdeed by entering the Painted World and slaying it's people."

Argon saw the scepter glow that brilliant blue hue again, and braced himself for the worst. At point-blank range an attack from the god would kill him, regardless of the armour he wore.

"For that, thou must be dealt with."

"Uncle Gwyndolin, please wait!"

The god turned his imperious gaze towards Argon's companion, regarding her for a moment before speaking.

"Ah, yes… thou hath escaped from the Painted World of Ariamis," he turned back to Argon, "this was your doing." He stated plainly, voice betraying no emotion whatsoever. They way the god had said it sounded more like a statement than a question.

"That's right, my Lord," he replied. "I rescued the Lady Priscilla from her prison."

The Lord of the Darkmoon considered his words for a long moment, before the energy from his catalyst faded.

"Foolish," he said simply. It seemed he wasn't one for drawn out conflict. That was a good thing at least. "my servant did inform me of an undead that had done so. Although the description of thine appearance was not precise, I see that the Princess is with thee, therefore the Chosen Undead thou must be."

"So the Firekeeper's covenant was with you, I see…"

Gwyndolin quirked his head, interest piqued. "Your mind is as sharp as your blade, undead. Whence did it occur to thee?"

"She left the night I returned from the Painted World with the Princess, stating she had an errand to run." Argon replied, walking toward his sword, picking it up and sheathing it before turning back as both god's looked at him for his answers. His legs almost buckled under him as both of their intimidating presences bore into him like rays of fire.

"But we all know that a Keeper of the fire _never_ leave's the flame unattended. Where would she have gone anyways, if not to her Lord."

A smirk creased the side of Gwyndolin's otherwise impassive mouth, a thing thought impossible to Argon, before he descended from the snakes beneath him. They seemed to shimmer into the same white light the Knight's of Gwyn did when slain before rippling the air and dissipating into nothing. The god's feet touched the ground without a sound and he started walking towards the undead, his crown-like helm catching the sunlight and gown swaying gracefully in the breeze within the vast room.

To Argon, the Lord of the Darkmoon seemed to possess feminine qualities in almost every aspect besides speech. The way he walked was oddly reminiscent to that of a teenage maiden of royalty, and the way he wielded his catalyst was like being pointed at by a manicured finger. A very _terrifying_ manicured finger.

What caused the Chosen Undead to writhe in agony the most was the fact that although the slender son of Gwyn had decided to stoop from his serpentine throne, he still irritatingly stood two feet _taller_ than Argon, further casting a literal and figurative shadow of intimidation over the smaller of the two. Was it too much to ask to at least be the same height of just _one_ god for once? What's more, he was attempting to stare down a being that he had to cran his neck _up_ to see, and he was six-foot three, dammit!

Gwyndolin stared _down_ from his height _above _Argon, taking his time to weigh up the undead and further drop the amber-eyed man's self-esteem before he raised his left hand up to rest on Argon's shoulder.

"Only the true Chosen Undead would have the power to enter the Painted World. My thanks to thee for rescuing my niece." he said glancing at Priscilla that was currently tearing up as she approached the two of them. Argon was shell shocked beyond understanding. Never in his time alive had he the chance to meet a god - not that it would be possible given all he remembered from his past was being imprisoned - let alone converse with one. He had saved one such god that was now his companion, and now here he was being thanked by another for saving one of his kin - and by the Lord of the Darkmoon no less. Argon would have laughed at his change in luck were it not for the shock he was currently feeling due to Gwyndolin's massive hand gripping his armoured shoulder. Seriously, everything about the feminine-looking god was just twice the size of Argon, it wasn't fair!

Before he could wallow in self pity, the sound of his previously silent companion's voice woke him from his stupor, as he glanced up at her.

"Uncle Gwyndolin, I thank you for thy benevolence." Argon raised an eyebrow.

_Again with the old-speak. Maybe it only quirks its head to her when with other god's?_

"We seeketh audience with my mother, the Queen of Sunlight. Will thou permit us to converse with her? It is of my companion's quest."

Gwyndolin turned to her and was silent, he thought for a moment before speaking.

"I am afraid the Gwynevere in that chamber is little more than an illusion of mine, child," he said, lifting his hand from Argon's shoulder. He seemed to go solemn at the question. "my sister hath departed from Lordran centuries ago."

"Oh," the goddess replied, trying to hold back the sadness in her voice, "I see…"

"If she's gone, then why have you made a great illusion of her for the chosen undead to come across?"

Both god's turned back to Argon, broken from the sorrow the Queen of Sunlight left with her absence from the kingdom of Anor Londo.

"Her visage could'st do what I could not. My sister embodied the glory of our father, the Lord of Sunlight. With her as a guide to the Chosen Undead, stray from the linking of the fire he wouldst not. She could indeed assure the dark of the Abyss would not corrupt the chosen undead's focus.

"When she departed, the warmth of the sun departed with her, leaving only a kingdom shrouded in darkness. With my power, I hath returned Anor Londo to it's former glory, shielding any worthy undead from a truth so horrible it could blind their spirits."

Argon could only blink in response.

"Wait… you mean the sun above our heads is just an illusion?"

"Thou art correct."

"And the warmth it carries…"

"Is my power imbued into the skies above. The sun of the Great Anor Londo shalt never wither to embers so long as I still live and breath."

Argon said nothing, opting instead to shut his chattering lips and swallow thickly. He was too busy freaking out to talk anyways.

_He used magic to create the sun… the freaking **sun** is a bloody **illusion**…_

For the first time in years, he wished he was back to hallucinating things. Perhaps this was a hallucination? Yes, a large, crazily imagined one. This wasn't Dark Sun Gwyndolin before him, it was just a figment of his imagination. He was in a dream world while awake, as such he just needed a good jolt to wake himself up. Yes… that was it. Maybe if he stabbed himself in the gut right now, this dream would be over, there's no possible way a god could re-create the _sun_ of all things, right? Sure they were gods' but that didn't mean they could actually do things _that_ astonishing. He just needed to wake up. He should do so now.

Argon reached for the hilt of his sword to impale himself but was stopped again by Priscilla's voice.

"Please then, Uncle, tell us how it is we must continue on this undead journey."

Gwyndolin stared at her before looking back down at Argon, "You were the first to enter my sister's chambers and hear her message upon her bestowing the Lordvessel to thy. Why have you returned then?"

"Oh, ah…" the undead looked to the side shyly, a dusting of red on his cheeks.

"I had… forgotten."

If he could see Gwyndolin's eye's right now, they'd have been narrowed in his direction, clearly agitated, "Have thy now…" Scratch that, Dark Sun Gwyndolin was _pissed_, "would thou care'st to explain?"

"Yeah… I remembered everything fine at first, until I entered into that dilapidated kingdom that looked oddly like Darkroot Garden with that impossibly annoying bat-dragon-thing that kept sucking out the humanity from my-"

"Stop," the god said suddenly, "thou hath travelled to Oolacile?"

Argon nodded.

"There was a broken talisman I pick up amongst the body of a crystalline beast I slew between a valley at the base of Darkroot Basin. After I defeated a Hydra near a waterfall and travelled to the end of the river it lived in, the talisman activated some sort of portal. All I remember after that was an abyssal hand grabbing me and dragging me into the city."

"I see…" his crowned head jerked suddenly and Gwyndolin crouched down, gloved hand turning Argon's head to the side and running a thumb over the black veins on his jaw.

"The scurge of the Abyss hath already tainted you, chosen undead." He said in a grave voice before standing up.

"Even so, thou must continue on thine undead quest. Seek out Kingseeker Frampt, a confidant of my father. He shall guide you on your path to link the flame."

He walked to the edge of the throne room, using his catalyst to cast a sorcery that lit the space around him with a ring of sigils that glowed white. Before the god could leave them, Argon turned and began to speak.

"Why share such information with a mere undead?"

Gwyndolin turned to look at him with the same expressionless face as ever. Now Argon knew how people felt when he stared at them for long moments at a time without speaking.

"You said Queen Gwynevere departed long ago," the undead added and saw the Darkmoon God turn his entire body to face him. "By me knowing that and you mentioning the possibility of straying from my quest without her, why would you knowingly allow me to know the truth?"

For the second time that day, Gwyndolin smiled. It was small but genuine enough to feel its warmth. To Argon, he had to mentally jar himself from blushing after remembering that the god was male. He just looked so pretty in that moment that he-

_No, calm down. He's a **boy**! The word 'pretty' doesn't exist for members of the same sex!_

"Chosen Undead, what is thy name?"

Argon retrieved his mask from his furry-tailed companion and placed it against his face as he spoke.

"I am simply known as Argon, my Lord."

"Argon…" the son of Gwyn repeated, "May the flames guide thee." He said and disappeared from view in a flash of light.

The undead led Priscilla towards a large-ringed elevator that took them to the top of the throne room, the light of the bonfire catching their attention. As they neared, they saw the large form of Gwynevere though the oak doorway and Priscilla hesitated for a moment. He placed a comforting hand on her gown before guiding her to the bonfire, hand grasping the hilt of the coiled sword as he focused on channelling the Lordvessel's power on Firelink Shrine. Suddenly, he turned his covered face to Priscilla.

"Hey, would you mind striking me?"

"I-I'm sorry?"

"Not enough to injure me of course, just a good slap would do, really."

"But why would you request that of me?" She asked with her head tilted to the side in concern.

"I… just need to wake up from whatever daze I'm in right now is all."

The cross breed gave him a skeptical look before sighing in defeat as their bodies glowed during their warp.

"If it is what you wish."

"Thanks Priscil-ah!" He said as the force from the slap forced his head to smash into the broken steps of Firelink Shrine, scaring the living daylights out of the otherwise cool and collected crestfallen warrior.

"Oh my, are you alright Argon? That strike was rather hard… did it wake you from the daze you complained of earlier?"

Argon groaned and righted himself, an awkward chuckle escaping from his mouth before he stared at the sky and frowned, body deflating almost instantly as the bright sun stared back at him, illusionary warmth making him heat up under his steel armour.

The undead simply replied with an annoyed grunt before walking up the moss-covered stairs and entering through a broken archway, a concerned cross breed trailing after him. He glared at the sun again.

_Nope, still there. Bloody illusion's…_

* * *

**And that's a wrap for chapter 3 (*pumps fist in the air)**

**Longer than the previous chapter, but the more the merrier, né? I had a different idea for Gwyndolin finding out about the MC's abyssal infection but unfortunately I messed that one up and you got this instead. Sorry 'bout that.**

**Also, I'd like to make it known to everyone that this fic is about the MC and Priscilla. I _was_ going to select romance in the genre action but there's just so many in here that I just said general instead.**

**I hope you enjoyed the story thus far, and happy soon-to-be New Year!**

**Please do R , tell me what you liked, disliked and tell me your questions should you have any at all.**

**Also, on a side note, I'd like say one thing about episode IX of the latest Star Wars movie:**

**OMG, THAT WAS BRILLIANT FOR THE MOST PART!**

**I have a few pieces of beef for the director of the Star Wars franchise but that's a Fanfiction for another time.**

**On a side-side note, have you guys seen Luigi's adorable waifu?! Booette/Boosette/Princess Boo is what I'm talking about, baby! (Hubba-hubba) ;P**

**Screw the whole MarioxPeach thing. Luigi you lucky bastard, I knew there was a reason I liked you more than your dimwit brother…**


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing the chosen undead had to say when staring at the primordial serpent was both unintelligible and shocking to a certain cross breed that had never heard the man cuss or even curse while in her presence. However, one would also argue that when you faced so many obscenities in Lordran and not been perturbed in the slightest, you would have at least a _tiny_ bit of control when encountering Kingseeker Frampt; a big serpent-toothy-thing that spoke eloquently. Priscilla was more surprised by her companion than she was of the confidant's appearance.

"SON OF A BITCH!"

She hadn't known him to even _understand_ the vocabulary of a lesser man but she also understood these were trying times.

"Ahem!" Argon gave a dry cough, looking at Priscilla and letting out a nervous laugh. She didn't need him to take his mask off to tell he was embarrassed by his outburst. It was amusing enough for her that the corners of her mouth lifted into a gentle smile that only seemed to embarrass him more.

"A-Anyways, it seems this is the confidant of Lord Gwyn," he began, "I don't know how it's supposed to give us the remainder of the undead quest but who am I to question Gwyndolin's wisdom?"

He sized up the smiling serpent that seemed to have burst up from the hidden trapdoor in the flooded shrine he had went through many times upon his days in Firelink. The water that was there had now been drained out as the big snake towered above the pair with that ever present smile, two fleshy tentacles drooping on either side of the thing's face like flat ends of a moustache. It was very unsettling to see them flapping about like giant ears but Argon didn't say anything about it. His mother had always warned him not judge God's creations anyway… maybe he should take her advice. At the same time, however, he was still stumped. Gwyndolin had sent them to a big snake with human teeth and no lips. In the undead's mind, he found it a tad difficult to completely understand the wisdom of a god; especially when said god had told them they would be delivered to their quest via a _snake_.

_Frampt_, he corrected in his head. It was rude not to remember the names creatures were addressed, no matter how absurd the current situation.

"So Priscilla..." the cross breed turned her head to him.

"Yes?"

"What do you think we should do about this thing?"

"My name is Frampt."

"HOLY SHIT!"

Priscilla was again wide-eyed; one half because of the sheer effort Argon seemed to put into his cusses when shocked, and half because of the deep voice that resonated from the primordial serpent. Today was yielding even more food for thought, it seemed.

"Now, now, cease your foul-words. You're in the presence of a lady."

"It can _talk_?!"

"As I've said already, I am Kingseeker Frampt. Please, Chosen One… compose yourself."

Argon combed a hand through his hair and sighed out, a few moments passing with both Frampt and Priscilla watching the undead's chest rise and fall as he controlled his panic and relaxed. Eventually, he did and stood from his kneeling position on the wet rock underneath them before coughing awkwardly.

"Right… sorry about that."

"It is quite alright." Replied Frampt.

"So you're Gwyn's confidant?"

"Indeed," he said bowing his head to the pair, "it was I that was entrusted with the secret of his undead mission to pass unto the Chosen Undead."

Frampt looked squarely at Argon for a moment and made a guttural sound at the back of his throat that sounded like a watery breath of excitement.

"You."

Argon nodded at him before the serpent moved to glance at Priscilla, his wide, red eyes appearing to widen even further, creeping out the undead so much that he took a cautious step back.

"Do my eye's deceive me?" Frampt murmured and leaned in closer to the cross breed that had the mind to skip backwards, least she be smacked in the face by one of his fleshy tentacles by accident.

"Is it really you, young Priscilla?"

"You know of me, Master Frampt?" She asked politely to which the serpent replied with another guttural breath.

"I had last seen you before your exile into the world the painter, Ariamis, had spoken of crafting. How wonderful it is to see you alive and well. I grieved with Lady Gwynevere the day Lord Gwyn had made the decision to exile his only grandchild due to the blasphemy of that scale-obsessed Duke." He said gravely, a shake of his bald head.

"If my father is truly as malevolent as many have made him out to appear," she replied, "I am sure I will never have the displeasure of witnessing it for myself. He is sure to have either passed on with his slain brethren or left Lordran long ago like my mother."

"You know of your mother's departure from Lordran?" He asked in surprise. Priscilla nodded.

"Uncle Gwyndolin told me the truth of Anor Londo after Argon rescued me from the Painted World. While I was saddened by his words, I am hopeful that the same will be true of my father."

"That, I'm afraid, is unfortunately not the case."

Both Priscilla and Argon looked at him perplexed.

"Chosen Undead," Frampt spoke again, a glint in his large eyes,

"You have been given a quest to relink the flame as your predecessor, Lord Gwyn had, using his Lordsoul, the Soul of Cinder."

"I understood that much." The undead nodded.

"Indeed, that much is true to us." Priscilla agreed.

"Yes, but that is the problem the two of you face." He said which further confused the pair. He continued after a growl left his lipless mouth.

"As it stands, your soul - strong as it may be - is not enough to carry the burden the Flame will weigh or open the doors to the Kiln of The First Flame. As such, you must go forth and best Gwyn's companions, acquire their Lordsoul's and use it satiate the Lordvessel given to you by Lord Gwyndolin.

"Only after the door to the Kiln is opened, and after you have consumed those souls, will you be strong enough to overtake Lord Gwyn and relink the Flame."

Priscilla tapped a sharp-nailed finger to her chin thoughtfully as she processed the words of the great snake before them, looking to Argon as he began to pace in a small circle muttering to himself quietly. After a while she turned back to Frampt and spoke.

"If Argon is to defeat grandfather's fellow Lord's, that would entail besting the first founder's of the First Flame."

"Indeed, young Priscilla," Frampt said nodding in agreement, his facial tentacles swiping at the wind as he did so. "Lord Gwyn's comrades were the first to awaken the the Flame and defeat the eternal dragon's from their reign. Their soul's will undoubtedly be enough to satiate the Lordvessel."

"If we're talking about Gwyn's comrades, that means the Gravelord and the Izalith Witch I'm guessing?" Argon uttered up to them.

Frampt and Priscilla nodded.

"Good… I can understand that much but will just two great soul's be enough? I mean the Lordvessel _is_ pretty big, it got stuck halfway into my bottomless box."

"You didn't warp the vessle in any way, did you?" Frampt asked sternly.

"I managed to shimmy it in eventually. The bowl is fine, if not a bit scratched."

The serpent sighed, satisfied, giving another watery growl.

"Additionally, Lord Gwyn gave a shard of his Lord Soul to the Five Kings of New Londo, who were afterward corrupted by the abyss and locked away into an eternal chasm by Knight Artorias, the Abysswalker."

Argon flinched beneath his mask at the name of the great knight. Artorias was both mighty and graceful in his eyes, truly unmatched in swordplay and a worthy foe for any that possessed even a piece of the skill the tall knight was noted for. The undead silently grieved in his heart thinking about the encounter between Gwyn's strongest Knight and himself, as they battled in the ruined Colosseum back in Oolacile. His left arm was beyond repair even by the potent healing scripture that Gwynevere used and his mind was corrupted, filled with rage, pain, loss, and the insanity of the Abyss that coursed through his vein's as he fought like a mindless but deadly drone against Argon. With a heavy heart, the undead had been forced to kill the shell of a great man that stood beneath broken armour, and he had wept miserably listening to the strained voice of what humanly remained of the proud Knight as he pleaded for Argon to strike him down.

It hadn't been an easy battle, Argon still had the scars and torn armour to prove it, but he had hesitantly vanquished the corrupted Knight, covering his ears as Artorias's bloodcurdling scream ripped through the air as Argon's sword impaled him. He had stood motionless as the darkened soul of the man he admired swirled in his grasp like purple flames - too shocked to even speak or respond as that lone Lord's Blade had gently taken it from his hands and thanked him - and his mind had drawn a blank when he stared silently at the lone great sword that had rested at his tired feet. That rusted, worn and dented hunk of pure steel mutilated into an abyssal weapon that spread dark fumes and clouded the wielders mind. The blade of Artorias, the last momento of the Abysswalker had taken refuge in Argon's bottomless box ever since - a reminder for the undead to carry on his role in this accused land.

He was broken from his train of thought as Frampt started speaking again.

"The final Lord is the former confidant to Lord Gwyn," he said, a slight edge in his otherwise warm voice, "in the fight against the everlasting dragon's, he proved his skill and was the pivotal factor for the Lord's victory that day. Lord Gwyn had thereafter granted him dukedom and blessed him with a shard of his own soul."

"Wait," Priscilla started, "you don't mean-"

She and Argon met each other's gazes as they spoke in unison.

"Seath…"

"Seath, the Scaleless proved a capable confidant and a wiser mind more brilliant than the likes of the immovable Havel." the snake corrected.

"He brought untold wisdom to the kingdom of Anor Londo, and advanced both magic and architecture beyond their years. He was an invaluable asset that Lord Gwyn placed complete trust in… until he began abducting and experimenting on maidens within the castle, that is."

Recognition flickered across Priscilla's eyes. "So the reason you said his disappearance from Lordran was unfortunately no so was beacuse-"

"Seath is still in Anor Londo." Argon completed.

Kingseeker Frampt growled in response.

"He was locked away in the Archives he created - gone insane by his own absurd fascination with the scales his brethren possessed. It is there that you will find him and claim his Lord Soul."

Before Argon and Priscilla could talk about this new piece of information both damaging to the two of them, Frampt began to speak yet again.

"Now," he boomed, "you must place the Lordvessel into the Firelink Altar below me in order to rejuvenate it's powers and break the ancient seal on the Kiln's doors. Are you ready, Chosen Undead?"

Argon looked to Priscilla for a moment before turning back to Frampt, stepping closer to his slimy grey body and gazing down into the depths beneath him. He lifted his head the the serpent.

"The Altar is down there, you say?"

"Indeed."

Argon looked back at the goddess. "Stay here, Priscilla. You need a moment to rest before we depart again. I won't be long."

"Alright." she said softly, a smile on her face that made his heart beat faster. He didn't understand why he felt so drawn to the cross breed, and she didn't understand why he went out of his way to make her feel better. She knew he was compassionate, but never knew why he did the things he did for her, it was like being lavished, except more by his sensitive side than by a servant – not that she had ever had a servant to begin with. Even so, it was something she secretly treasured more than anything. She had been alone for most of her life and to experience his attention was her guilty pleasure. She almost felt like a needy pet sometimes, but loved every moment he spent focussed on her. In Frampt's eye's, they just looked like two oblivious lovebirds. He made an annoyed growl at the back of his throat.

_Young people these days._

Before she could say anything more to him, he promptly turned back to the trapdoor Frampt stood from, tipped over the edge and fell into the dark below, flabbergasting the goddess as she gasped and called out his name, and mildly amusing the primordial serpent as his clicked his teeth together, looking at a bewildered Priscilla before pointing his bald head into the darkness below him.

"Well that's one way to do it."

* * *

The light around him disappeared completely in less than five minutes since his leap off the wet rock of the shrine of upper Firelink. The wind rushed passed him at blinding speeds that made a whistling sound in his ears as it curled around him like an airborne torpedo, barrelling down to meet it's chosen target. The excitement that bubbled in his chest was uncontrollable as he laughed loudly, sound vanishing just as soon as it appeared from out of his covered mouth. He just couldn't find the best word to fit his situation right now - he was falling.

He had felt an assortment of excitement and gotten his fair share of endorphins along his journey; ranging according to the different scenario's he had found himself in. The joys of battle had filled him, when he was hollowed and although it was a particularly darker part of him that favored the sight of drawing blood from his opponent's, he had to admit it was something that got his heart racing.

He had found pleasure in meeting and talking to the various other undead still sane in Lordran, launching into conversation and enjoying it whether the other undead were friendly or rude or just plain crazy. He had also revelled in the smiles that would split his face in half when wielding reinforced and ascended weapons forged either by Andre, that skeletal smith back in the catacombs, or the giant in Anor Londo.

But nothing had excited him more than falling for some reason. It filled him with adrenaline to a point where his heart threatened to burst from how fast it pumped and he swore he had never felt so weightless in his life. At that moment falling in the dark, knowing full well that soon he would meet flat ground, he didn't care about his undead mission, didn't worry about the darksign that always dully throbbed over his heart, and he completely forgot about the fact that his body was slowly being corrupted by the abyss. He felt alive for first time in his life since being undead - a gift he could only compare to when he was with Priscilla - and his mind immediately drifted to the cross breed that was waiting for him way above the expansive rock form and darkness.

He thought about his journey with her thus far; about how much she had made his monotonous and terrifying journey more lively. How at every stop they made, she seemed to brighten the room up with her smiles and warm his cold heart that seemed frozen in place by the things he had witnessed until meeting her. He thought of how she had healed him that day, broken as he was. He was an interloper. A murderer in a prison of insane criminal's. He had trespassed and paid the price by being killed multiple times and revived on the verge of going insane himself. But she had helped him.

In his moment of weakness, his moment of dispair and fatigue, she had made him rest against her fluffy tail and she healed his grievous injuries. After he had rescued her from her prison he had seen sides of her he thought never existed. He wasn't as blind as he appeared, he called himself observant for a reason. He noticed those times she would take her time to stare at him, those beautiful slitted-emerald eyes gazing at him for long moments when they were alone. He noticed the times her voice would raise an octave when replying to a sudden question of his his while they travelled, fought together or simply rested at another bonfire. And he never wasted any time enjoying those shy smiles and deilacte looks of happiness she saved only for him. Perhaps she was unaware she was doing all of it or perhaps she wasn't - he didn't have a clue - but what he did know was that he found himself wanting more and more of the cross breed's smiles, looks and voice. He felt a deep longing for her he hadn't felt in a _long_ time.

As he finally saw light below him, his happy thought's came to an end and were replaced by the fast approaching ground. Argon tensed his muscles, preparing a spell to cushion his fall when he noticed golden sparks appear that wrapped around his body and slowed his descent. The rush of air around him dissipated as his boots gently touched the ground.

He looked around at the dimly lit chamber of deep set stairways and large hearths that floated in midair around him. He turned his body and found what he was looking for: it was a simple thing, a wide, flat stone altar raised above the rock to work as a stand for the Lordvessel to sit atop. Behind it sat a pair of gigantic white stone walls that were sealed shut - taller than the tallest sentinel and paler than a noble of Carim. This was the Firelink Altar, the place he would place Lord Soul's and open those pale stone doors. The doors to the Kiln of The First Flame. A small grin lifted his pale cheeks, they could have at least made the place a little warmer.

"Upon that altar will rest the Lordvessel you possess." he heard Frampt's voice behind him and turned to see the snake hanging upside down from the same hole Argon had dropped from, his flat tentacles flapping about as the cold air whipped around the dimly-lit chamber.

"Upon planting the Lordvessel here, the entry-ways and rooms previously blocked by Lord Gwyn's power will be undone, allowing you and young Priscilla to traverse and approach the area's the four Lord Soul's are situated in."

The undead nodded and walked up to the slab of rock, placing a gauntlet on the smooth, dusty altar and feeling it's power resonate against him. He had a feeling that if he tried to pry those giant doors open, something bad would happen to him due to the magic that resided here. A clever trick by the Sunlight god he didn't dare to test, he had already felt what those blocked areas covered in golden lightning had done to him when he had tried to walk through it. In his mind it wasn't a very pretty way to die by being struck with over a thousand bolts of electricity.

He stepped back a foot and took a moment to concentrate, focusing on drawing the Lordvessel from his eternal storage without damaging it, least that big snake do something like bite him as punishment. With a soft sigh, the Lordvessel eventually materialised in his hands, the giant bowl weighting both a ton and nothing at the same time, which threatened to break Argon's equilibrium as he cautiously eased it onto the outstretched rock below, making a loud _thunk _that echoed around the chamber.

"Now," said Frampt, "place your hand against the vessel and commune with it."

Argon frowned for a moment. Commune with it? It was just a bowl that had granted him the power to teleport from bonfire to bonfire. As unclear as it's relationship with the coiled sword fire's was, he hadn't the slightest clue how to interact with something so unknown.

Before he could turn around and question the hanging snake he noticed a small flame burn to life in the centre of the bowl, sparks of orange and yellow flying around like some type of geyser before it finally clicked in his mind.

_It's another bonfire._

Without a second thought he thrust his arm forward, reaching into the bowl to grasp at the flame, curling his fingers around it and channeling out a piece of his soul before the small flame burst into a base of fire that covered the bottom of the Lordvessel, the familiar sound of crackling fire filling the chamber with sound and a yellow glow. He inhaled deeply as his darksign burned hotter for a quick moment, the souls it stored rushing out and strengthening him, reinforcing his muscles, his sight and his physical endurance. For a while he said nothing as the euphoria of those souls powered him and he was about to let his mind wander before the quantity of the souls diminished and his mind refocused, darksign fading back to it's dull throbbing and he stepped back as he felt the weight around the stone doors give way, a light spout of silver magic bouncing off the enchanted doors before they glowed white, illuminating the chamber to a point where everything, save for the deep corners of the room were visible.

"Well done, Chosen Undead," Frampt spoke up, an excited growl escaping his mouth as Argon approached, "the Lordvessel has been placed, and the seal's Lord Gwyn had once placed have finally faded after centuries of waiting." He finished, rasping that watery sound again. He was really excited, thought Argon.

"So that's it? I just… carry on and slay Gwyn's best friends and claim their souls?"

"Yes, their minds have been twisted or corrupted by the centuries that have passed. Pay them no mercy or hesitation… they will not hold anything back against you."

"Understood." Argon said nodding. All he had to do was kill some of the greatest Lord's that had ever lived and claim their souls as his own. Just great. Frampt had sent him on a suicide mission, though luckily for him, being undead meant a suicide mission was right up his alley. He looked at Frampt's smiling face again and deadpanned the well-spoken snake.

_I wish I stayed in the cell._

"Now, we must return to young Priscilla, she must surely be worried for your safety."

"Now that you mention it, I get why everything seems so gloomy down here now."

"And why is that?" Asked Frampt.

"Priscilla isn't here to liven things up."

The primordial serpent made an interested sound and stared directly into the undead's eyeholes. Argon noticed and clicked his tongue.

"Not another word from you, old snake."

"If that is what you wish, Chosen Undead." Frampt replied, a chuckle in his voice as Argon folded his arms in agitation.

"How are we getting back anyway?"

Frampt cleared his throat. "I will escort you. Be still for a moment."

Argon turned to question what he meant but stopped, the hand he raised in question now frozen in place as the toothy snake opened his jaws wider and wider and _wider._ Wide enough to accommodate a person. This wasn't going to end well.

"Wha- wait Frampt, let's take a quick brea- no, no, no, no, no-"

Argon could say no more as he was swallowed up by the well-spoken serpent and dragged back to the top of Firelink Shrine.

* * *

Priscilla was beginning to worry a little bit. Sure, an undead quest meant devoting the longest of times into making sure it was completed and no one ever took a quest like so unless they were prepared for it, but the wait was killing her.

She had done her best to pass the time, she swore she did. From interacting with the black crow that rested above the dilapidated shrine, to walking around the pillars and archways singing to herself, to accidentally scaring a nearby pyromancer before conversing with him about Argon and various other topics. She should have been on her guard after seeing the bearded man meditating when they had arrived and passed him, however, for some reason his kind face and voice had pacified whatever caution she was going to throw to the wind. After a few more moments of chatter with the bearded undead, however, she rested scythe against the broken wall and dropped to the floor with a dejected sigh.

"You miss him, don't you?" Laurentius asked her that made her turn her flushed cheeks to the bonfire to the right of them. The pyromancer only laughed heartily in reply.

"He grows on you, he does. It starts from a simple interaction with the masked man, then a friendly conversation that takes your mind off of the predicament we all face here in Lordran; and then before you know it, you'd have wished you had accompanied him just to feel the same spark of life he does."

The cross breed nodded silently, a small smile in her face that made her reminiscent of her smaller companion.

"Don't you fear my lady," Laurentius said, a comforting hand on her… well, larger hand. The carefree pyromancer was starting to feel slighty insignificant in terms of size. He tried not to let it get to his head much.

"Argon is cut from a different cloth of exceptionally tougher material. No matter the circumstances, he'll find a way to come out on top, you'll see."

Priscilla nodded and looked out wistfully, "You are correct, Argon always finds a way to make it out alive. Though he may not have the best of luck on his side, and mostly comes across as ambiguous by the people around him, he never ceases to ease the worries of everyone, and turn someone's curse into a blessing."

Laurentius raised an eyebrow at the goddess, his pyro-gloved hand reaching up to scratch his stubble as a sly grin spread across his face.

"I see my friend has stolen more than just your admiration, my lady."

She frowned at his words, watching as he stood up and began to stretch his limbs. He sighed out as his shoulder's popped, stretching it skyward and arching his back. Sitting in meditation for hours at a time wasn't doing wonders for his spine.

"When I gave him a flicker of my flame, he was hesitant at first," the pyromancer began, "who wouldn't be when offered the power most people had deemed heretical? But he still accepted my gift, I owed it to him for saving me so long ago. I had thought he would just keep it stored away, hidden from sight while on his travels - thinking he was like the rest of the undead that were in Lordran who feared and hated pyromancy - instead he came back to me, asking for new ways to harness the flame I gave him.

"For so long, I thought that the path of the pyromancer was the wrong one I had chosen. The world shunned me even before I was undead, but what could I do, really, being born in the swamps as an orphan with no way to protect myself? I saw pyromancy as the personification of my own desire to get stronger. The way the flames grew with a stray gust of wind or burned brighter when struck by water entranced me; I found it's resilience captivating… and so I had taken to it like a moth to light. The world had judged me, of course, but as long as I kept my eye's focused on the flames in my hand, I didn't care what people thought. I was happy."

Priscilla smiled gently. She knew too well the suffering of being an outcast, the damage it did to one's mind when reality crashed into your world with an iron fist, shattering your dreams and aspirations to live free and happy. When she was first sent to the Painted World, she had cried bitterly, betrayal and hate festering in her heart like the putrid appearance of many of the undead caged together with her. She thought that her life was over, that she would die before she even had the chance to see the brightly lit corridors of her true home again, or to feel the loving embrace of her mother as she buried her face into her soft bosom, calm heartbeat lulling her into a peaceful dream. But eventually she had given up on things like meeting her mother again. On the hate she had held for decades - it had all just blown away in the endless winter that was her sense of normality - she had instead focused on living for herself. On finding what little joy was left for her in her prison: the moonlight, the stars, the rare company Jeremiah had brought with him whenever he had decided to visit her with that ridiculous Xanthous crown on his head. She briefly wondered if he felt the same as Laurentius did, and felt guilt bite at her mind at the thought that she had knowingly left him alone in the Painted World. Would he be angry if she were to ever see him again, or would he simply laugh and pat her tail in reassurance like he always did when she was apprehensive? He was a strange one, for a human, but when she thought about Argon and the pyromancer in front of her, she found that she welcomed strangeness. It was refreshingly better than self pity.

"When I came to Lordran in search of the truth of what my pyromancy actually meant, I was lost, afraid, and I found my overconfidence drip out of me with each death the hollow's here dealt to me. I quickly realised that just ignoring everything and under compensating for anything was bringing me deeper and deeper into the bottled up depression I had stored for most of my life. I discovered that what I really was wasn't happy, but living in dementia - that crestfallen soldier was to thank for that. Soon I had found myself trapped in the Depths of the Lower Burg, sentenced to be a hollow's supper.

"In those moments, I knew I was worthless. I hadn't learned anything from my fellow teachers in the Great Swamp, instead I was just lying to myself that I was just fine living as another lost soul without a purpose. That was when Argon had found me - rescued me - and gave me hope by the interest and attention he devoted to my teachings of basic pyromancy. Within moments, my outlook on life had changed from the person that saw my power as useless to a man that felt the fire that flowed through my veins; that finally understood how magnificent my flame truly was. Argon inspired me to continue my search for the Kingdom of Izalith, focused not on the origin of pyromancy but on how I could better my skill and live like the greatest of us so called heretics - the Great Salaman. Argon changed me with his words and… joviality, I guess. He made me smile again in this bitter land; truth be told I would risk my life for him, something I wouldn't even do for the teacher's that clothed and fed me years ago."

Laurentius started walking towards the trapdoor in the dilapidated shrine, humming merrily to himself as he regarded the memory and Priscilla followed, tail swishing from side-to-side pleasantly, interests piqued at the tale involving a certain undead.

"You seem to treasure him quite a lot, Master Laurentius."

"I do. He's become like family to me, he has. His personality is infectious sometimes, I can't stop thinking about how he greets everything with his usual quirkiness. Its the reason I'll follow him blindly." He stopped a few feet away from the trapdoor and turned around, head raised to look her in the eye's as he smiled.

"The same reason you've fallen for him, I might say."

The goddess in question blushed fiercely, eye's wide as the pyromancer laughed heartily, a hand on his gut as he struggled to breath. Her reaction was just too much for him. She would certainly make a good match for his masked friend, now if only she were the same _height_ as the black-haired undead…

"Take care of him, will you? He doesn't say much about himself, but he's troubled deep down. You're honestly the only one I've seen that can make him come out of his shell and drop that emotional mask of his."

"I'm sure he just has trouble talking about his feelings with other people," she replied, brushing aside a strand of hair from her face.

"I'll do my best, but I hope he won't be deterred by my attempt to get closer to him. My appearance _is _quite stifling given my size, after all…"

"Ah! I wouldn't worry too much about that," Laurentius laughed, "he's too kind and noble of a man to even mention such things. He seems like he's been brought up to be a gentleman from what I can gather."

Their conversation was cut short as Kingseeker Frampt emerged from the hole in the floor, grabbing the attention of both of them as the serpent gazed back at the two of them for a moment, noticing their confused looks when they didn't see Argon anywhere with him. Before either of them could ask, Frampt promptly gagged, leaned closer towards the flat, wet stone ground and spat out a drenched Argon, rasping as Laurentius and Priscilla stared at him and Argon with bewildered looks on their faces.

"M-Master Frampt I-"

"**God dammit Frampt**! Couldn't you at least _try_ and warn me _before _you do something as disturbing as that?!" Argon's voice cut Priscilla short as he stood from his place on the ground, sludge and water rolling off his silver armour in dirty rivulet's of brown and black liquid. His body was shaking in rage.

"Oh, now don't be silly," retorted Frampt, a bored look on his face as if he had much better things to do than argue about why his action towards the undead was considered ill behavior, "how else would you have returned to Firelink Shrine were it not for my foresight?"

"Foresight?" Argon coughed, head snapping to the giant snake.

"You call _that_ foresight?! You opened your large-ass mouth and **_ate_ **me, you mother fu-"

"Argon!" Laurentius barked, catching the attention of Frampt, his friend, and his fluffy-tailed companion.

"Maybe you should calm down a little, you're scaring the lady here…" he pointed to a flustered cross breed that had decided to look away and not further embarrass the wet undead.

"A-Ah… uh…"

Frampt just shook his head and stayed silent.

_Young people these days, so ungrateful…_

They all watched - save for Priscilla - as Argon stopped his stuttering display and turned to walk off toward the bonfire, stiff in his movements as he attempted to walk off his embarrassment. Laurentius sighed, a grin on his face as he looked at Priscilla, still blushing but watching through shy eye's as the undead walked towards the bonfire and sat down with a huff, the flames doing it's best to melt away the layer of mucus that surrounded his form.

Argon romoved his mask as he dried off, an exasperated look on his face as he stared it the porcelain mask, horizontally-slitted eyeholes staring back at him blankly as he shook it to rid it of slime. He hoped Frampt's bodily fluids didn't wear out the durability on his mask, it was a nice mask.

To his right, the Crestfallen Warrior sniffed the air, a foreign scent assaulting his nostrils as he covered his nose, and made eye contact with Argon, his face scrunched up in disgust as he spoke to the drenched undead.

"By the gods'... you reek."

Argon only glared back in reply.

* * *

**I haven't said this before, but thank you to everyone that has read, liked, followed, favourited, and commented on any one of my stories thus far. I didn't think my work would be that exemplary, so thanks for proving me wrong with every new like and comment. You've no idea how much all of you make my day evey time I receive an e-mail stating that someone new has just liked what I wrote. You've all really made my day's happier one's, you know - me being a noob and all that.**

**The sappy stuff aside then! (*wipes tears away), this chapter was a small break from all the fighting to stay alive and the introduction of the primordial serpent! (I like Frampt by the way, but I seriously hated it whenever he 'ate' my character whenever I needed to go to Firelink Altar to place a new soul into the Lordvessel. I mean, come on, who _wouldn't_ be freaked out by being EATEN** **by a bloody snake?)**

**Please do R , I look forward to any and all comments - flames or not - as well as any things you'd like to see, like other character's or perhaps more fluff between Argon and Priscilla. **

**Thank you for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

**After reading a few other fics from different universes and platforms, I've realised that I haven't inserted the default line that states I do not own this story, which I find completely odd, since everyone from the people reading this to the person writing this author's note knows - without a shadow of a doubt - that I very obviously don't own Dark Souls. Why would I be writing this story if I did, ya' know? Eh, for the sake of what little damn I give, let me insert it.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Dark Souls. The company, From Software does. I just have a hand in creating this particular plot-line that people are reading.**

**There(*exhales with a smile), wasn't so bad after all…**

* * *

"I think you're shrinking on us."

"I am not."

"Come on, don't sound so moody. Is it really a bad thing?"

"It is if you are going to continue teasing me about it."

"You know I only do it out of affection for my one and only friend."

"Argon… you _do_ know I'm standing right here, mate."

"My one and only _goddess_-friend-person, then."

"Was that really the best you could come up with?"

"I suppose so, yes…"

The bearded pyromancer, the Chosen Undead and the cross breed goddess walked in silence for a comfortable few moments, along the blackened cobblestones of the Undead Parish before Laurentius risked a peek at the tailed member of the trio.

"He's right, my lady… I think you are getting shorter."

"Ha! I told you so."

"Not you as well!" Priscilla groaned, hiding her face behind her pale fingers, peeking out through the gaps so she could at least watch where she was going.

"It's really not that bad." Argon began for the umpteenth time that day, which only made the goddess glare at him - looking more like a cute pout since she didn't have a mean bone in her body.

"Look at it this way: when you and I met, you dwarfed me in size. It was only natural at the time because you are the offspring of the Queen of Sunlight, making you a goddess yourself."

"That much is obvious. The question is why am I, a goddess, beginning to _shrink _in the first place?" She questioned, running a hand down the ruffled fabric of her gown and staring at the bunched up amount at her feet. She was beginning to worry immensely, it was a nice gown to ruin just because of height difference.

"That's what I'm trying to say, we all know that the god's and various other important figures of Lordran, unfortunately, stand at twice the size of the tallest human. However, I've been playing a theory in my head as to why exactly you are being affected. My main focus centering on the Painted World of Ariamis."

"You think it's due to the Painting's corruption that Priscilla is the way she is now?" The swamp-born asked, a frown marring his otherwise peaceful features.

"Not the corruption it held, exactly, but more on the lines of the enchantment of the Painter himself."

Both companions stopped and stared at the chosen undead as he skipped up a flight of stairs, holding a black bow and watching out for any hollows. The ashes that fell from the burning piles of bodies from behind the gate they had passed burst into puffs of grey power as it landed on the brigand armour he wore, toned muscles peeking out from the sides like silvery fish underwater. Priscilla had felt bad that the Knight armour he had worn before was still left at the Firelink bonfire to dry completely, but she certainly didn't mind the small showcase he offered now in those strips of leather and plates of metal. Was it just her or had his chest grown bigger and more muscled?

"Ariamis had created that world to house the insane or imprison others by order of Gwyn," his masked gaze turned to Priscilla briefly as he spoke, "while Ariamis had the power to prevent people from entering the Painted World, how exactly did he have the power to keep people in?"

"He would have to use a type of magic that bordered both person's in and out of the Painting from leaving and entering, respectfully. The only thing I can think about is the cleric miracle, Force." Laurentius replied, hand on his chin in thought.

After Argon had gotten over his anger of being eaten alive by the well-spoken snake, both him and Priscilla had deemed it necessary to explain everything of what they had learned to the Pyromancer of the Great Swamp. It was the sensible thing to do after he had befriended the goddess _and_ announced that he would be accompanying them until they reached Izalith. It was also partly due to how close Argon and Laurentius seemed to be to the cross breed. Saving someone had that affect on people, she was proof of it. A Pyromancer in their party was extremely useful in battle, it meant they had a teammate with medium and close ranged fighting capabilities. Besides that, however, one of their stops was the ruined civilization itself and the more there were on such a perilous journey, the merrier it was in between fighting for your life.

As far as he knew, there weren't many spells or incantations that _could_ really do such a thing as box in an opponent. Of course, there were an entire archive of old magic's and enchantments that did everything; from mending wounds, to providing a sense of direction when lost, to even conjuring a sprite temporarily that could distract foe's. What there wasn't, was a spell so offensive it could affect an entire _city_ of people. There just weren't enough people that had the capacity to formulate a spell that vast, and even if more than a group of sorcerer's managed to create it, keeping it stable and active for over a few _moments_ would drain them completely of whatever energy and power they held, never mind entire _centuries_.

"Force would be something along those lines but it's used more for pushing people away in a burst of pressure rather than boxing them in." Argon countered, knocking and arrow into the bow and killing a balder soldier that just noticed the trio from inside the decayed cathedral. He turned back to them, drawing another arrow from behind his back.

"What I'm taking about is a powerful illusion, strong enough to keep inhabitants in and interlopers out."

"You think an illusion can be powerful enough to do that?" Laurentius scratched his head he spoke, conjuring a large fireball and throwing it through the doors of the church and closing the double doors as the flames grew and climbed up the pillars.

"He made that painting when all the god's were still staying in Anor Londo. He could have had help from an assortment of god's, Grandfather Gwyn, included." Priscilla said, nodding her head slightly in agreement.

"Gwyn, Velka, Nito, the Izalith Witch, heck, even Gwyn's banished first born could have had a hand in helping," Argon counted down with his fingers as he explained, "with that many god's and people like Seath and Havel at his disposal, he could keep that illusion going for as long as the world stayed kicking."

His two companions mulled over his words as they walked, Argon waiting a few more moments before opening the church doors and letting the now extinguished flames billow out black smoke from the entrance. Argon coughed and waved a hand to clear it away, eventually making out the forms of two other balder knight's burned to a crisp before they burst into a mass of souls that flooded into the trio equally.

As they entered and walked in between the pews, Priscilla frowned, realising what the undead was insinuating.

"Your theory is that my height is an illusion?"

"Precisely."

A tick mark appeared on her forehead as he replied as nonchalantly as ever, putting away his bow and clenching his fist as a Velkian rapier materialised from it. Elegant and dripping with a cold aura of occultic magic. He was feeling a bit malevolent today anyways. The goddess watched silently as he and Laurentius swerved right, down another flight of stairs and dispatched three hollow's with ease. As she followed with a sigh she heard the pyromancer mutter about the fumes from before clouding Argon's thoughts. At least she wasn't the only one not believing the absurdity of his statement.

"While I agree that Ariamis did hold a strong magic over his creation," she began, swiping her scythe downwards at a hollow that jumped towards her, splitting his body cleanly in two.

"I doubt that it was the reason my height is being affected. I am a goddess, it's only natural that I dwarf the both of you. You yourself had even said that my mother was over five times the size of myself when she gifted you with the Lordvessel."

Laurentius' eye's bugged out of his head at the statement as Argon simply flicked blood from his blade and sheathed it before leading them down yet another flight of stairs. Where were they going anyway?

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Laurentius asked, face dazed and words slurred as he tried to imagine the sight of a massive, curvaceous goddess.

"The _illusion_ of your mother." Argon corrected, ignoring the pyromancer.

"Is it that difficult to believe that god's are much larger in size as compared to the human race?" She asked slightly frustrated. She wasn't one to get technical but this wasn't doing anything to her self-esteem at the moment. Which woman - goddess or not - wanted to hear that she was _shrinking _out of all things? On a different note, did he not realise that she was having a panick-attack at the news? Laurentius had noticed it, how could he not when her face was paler than usual? At least _he_ had the manners not to say much about it. Why couldn't the ambiguous undead be the same? She mentally groaned, secretly knowing that she didn't want to change a single thing about the man, but refusing to admit it.

Her eye's stared a hole into the back of the masked undead's head as he descended the stairway in front of her. Maybe he _did_ notice but was acting like typical Argon, as usual. It wasn't difficult to imagine, the man had a knack for keeping up the suspense.

"My intimidation at your race's size aside, just bear with me here; Gwynevere was the size of a house in her brother's illusion of her, but as far as we know, she could just be slightly taller than a Silver Knight. You wouldn't know the difference since you were still too small to notice and because virtually everyone in Anor Londo were taller than a mansion's double door's at the time."

"That's a good evaluation but how do you know Lady Gwynevere wasn't the same size as the illusion you saw?" Laurentius asked as they entered a smaller, crumbling church and followed Argon down _another_ flight of stairs. Priscilla grumbled under her breath. This was getting tedious and her bare feet were sore. She wanted to rest them so badly.

"Gwyndolin," the undead replied.

"He was my first clue. He stood at a fair height of nearly thrice my size, like a certain cross breed, however what really got my attention was the illusion of snakes at his feet that he dissipated when speaking to me. From there it lead me to think of the old books I had read that detailed the appearance of the Sunlight Bringer, as well as his correct height.

"In the text it said that he 'rose to twice and a half the height of man' - meaning he was basically just taller than his loyal Knight's. Which made sense when comparing his feminine son to him, as well as the false claim that Gwynevere was the size she was depicted by the many bards and perverts out there in the human world. If my theory is correct, the Sunlight Goddess was slightly taller than the average height of a human, also proving why it is that our Priscilla is shrinking the way she is; the illusion that made her seem malevolent and menacing in the Painted World as a deterrent for any lucky intruder's is wearing off. She's simply reforming to the same height as her mother."

They stopped as they finally reached a bonfire and rested, leaning against the walls of the square room as Laurentius and Priscilla processed the information they had just received. It wasn't absurd to ponder on, he made a sound argument. Priscilla would have admitted defeat if not for one thing that still raised questions in her head.

"If what you are saying is true," Argon and Laurentius turned to her as she spoke, the pyromancer pulling out a flask from his side and taking a large gulp of whatever lay inside.

"Then how could it have been possible for my mother and Seath to conceive?"

The pyromancer sprayed clear water from his mouth, coughing hard and slapping his chest as he atremtped to erase the image of an albino dragon and a buxom goddess being intimate with one another. Argon for the most part, tapped a finger against his boot in mild agitation as he turned his drenched head toward the cross breed, taking off his mask and laying it down next to the fire to dry.

"Well, if you must know," he began, sending a glare the coughing man's way before taking off his gloves and leaving them to dry as well.

"Certain dragons have been known to possess the ability to change their form's with a specialized type of magic. Seath was no different in that regard, being the only everlasting dragon to possess a greater magical prowess due to his birth as an scaleless dragon."

Priscilla blinked and chewed her lip thoughtfully, finally resigning to her fate that she was indeed shrinking and nodded to the dark-haired man.

"I suppose it does make sense, when you put it that way."

"Yea… guess you're theory might prove right, friend." Laurentius said, taking another drink of water from his flask.

"It's still disturbing though."

"What is?" Asked Priscilla.

"Imagining how a dragon of titanic proportions could manage to even _fit_ inside of Gwynevere even after shrinking to an acceptable size."

The undead received another shower of water to the face as Laurentius choked again, gasping for what little air he could get in while an extremely flustered Priscilla busied herself on gently patting the back of her companion, not daring to meet Argon's gaze for even a second, least her heart explode in her chest from how erratically it was beating.

He just wasn't all that tactful with his words sometimes.

* * *

After an hour of rest, an apology from Laurentius and after the awkwardness between Argon and Priscilla had faded, the trio had made their way down the last flight of stairs in the smaller Church, their eyes finding the source of the rhythmic sound of metal against metal that they had been hearing since reaching the bonfire.

Priscilla didn't have to bend down that much to walk and saw Argon and Laurentius give a bark of laughter before running towards the corner of the room.

"Ah, so you two are well, I see." An old voice croaked out as she descended the last stair to see a hunched over old man sitting behind an anvil, a steel hammer in his hand that he was using to beat an estoc back into shape.

His grey beard drooped down to his belly button and his chest was bare, brandishing the expanse of muscles that shone a light brown in the musky room. There was a small armoury of swords, shields, spears and axes propped up against the wall behind him and against the opposite side of the room, where the stairway lowered was a tall table that had an array of tools and cloths resting neatly on top of it. He noticed her and gave her a warm smile.

"And you've brought a friend. Is she a new arrival?" He asked, gloved hand scratching the messy grey locks on his head.

He didn't seem to be startled by her appearance and size in the slightest, and she scrutinized him as he swung his hammer down a few more times on the rested blade before placing the tool down and wiping his forehead of sweat. He seemed to know Argon and Laurentius quite well, however, as he stood to embrace the pair in a bone crushing hug and laughing in delight at the prospect of company.

"She's actually been here longer than us," Argon spoke after gaining breath back into his lungs. "her name's Priscilla."

He didn't give any more detail and the broad shouldered man didn't ask as he released the two undead. She looked at the masked undead, slitted eye's focusing on him as he leaned against the wall. He was attempting to prevent people from realizing who she really was, and it seemed the pyromancer was also in on it too. She was grateful, news of a goddess accompanying the pair of undead on their journey would surely raise unnecessary trouble they didn't need. It was best they avoided any and all discussion about her. Maybe it _was _a good thing she was shrinking? It would at least lessen the burden of the obvious elephant in the room.

"Well, it's nice to meet you Priscilla." the blacksmith said, nodding to her and sitting back down with a huff. She blinked and smiled kindly to him.

"I am Andre, of Astora. If you need any help with mending any armour, or that scythe of yours," he gestured to the weapon on her back with his hammer, "be sure to come to me, I'll bring it back to pristine condition again."

"Thank you, sir Andre. I am grateful for your kindness." She replied, smiling gently.

"He he he he, I'm surprised a lady with such manners is able to join your company, eh Argon?" He laughed in amusement that sounded more like a wheezy cough. It seemed he hadn't had the pleasure of laughter in quite some time.

"What did the two of you do, swear her to be your personal help after rescuing her or something? Hah hah he he he!"

"Come now, you old hunchback," Argon retorted, "you think we would really do that to any woman we see wandering around Lordran?" His tone was mildly annoyed but good natured.

"Not at all, It's just a shock to see she hasn't already run away when faced with your table manners!" He laughed again, clutching his sides for air.

"Aw, come on Andre!" Argon whinned.

"He is right, you know?"

"Not _you_ too, Laurentius!?" He gasped in shock.

"Well you are quite a perplexing man to talk to… and you don't have the best tact when it comes to confronting delicate situations."

"When have I not handled a delicate situation with care?"

"Over an hour ago?"

"I'll have you kn-" he stopped abruptly and turned to Priscilla for a moment. After a few seconds he sighed and slouched his shoulder's.

"I suppose you're partly right on that…"

The blacksmith laughed again ad slapped a hand on his muscled thigh before clearing his throat.

"So, what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? I've heard both Bells of Awakening being rung already, and I take it you've journeyed to Anor Londo too, haven't you?"

Argon nodded, and drew an old greatsword from his bottomless box before resting it, point down in front of him. The silver steel was stained with black as if it had suffered burn marks and the edges were nicked and dented. The only usable part of the sword was the point that had managed to maintain it's sharpness. Upon the hilt rested a small crest of what looked like a wolf engraved into what once was a beautiful weapon.

The blacksmith's eye's almost seemed to sparkle as he reached out and grasped the greatsword from the hilt.

"My… this is the greatsword of Artorias."

Priscilla and Laurentius turned their heads to stare at Argon and then the blade in awe, bewildered looks on their faces.

"It's not the same blade it once was but I can still feel some of the ancient magic within it."

"Can you fix it?"

"I can do what I can but I would need at least three shards of Demon Titanite to reforge what's left."

"That much, huh?" Argon muttered and reached into a pouch on his hip. Priscilla and Laurentius watched as he pulled out a small box, no bigger than his palm, shaped to resemble a miniature chest.

He lifted the box into the air before dropping it, and their eyes widened as the box grew into a massive chest that hit the ground with a great crash, rattling the swords and shields behind Andre in the process.

"Just how many items have you stored inside it?!" The pyromancer sputtered out in shock, "It's huge!"

"Meh."

"If you have any more Ember's in there, I'll gladly take them off your hands." Chimed in the blacksmith and Argon briefly turned to look at him before muttering and shaking his head, hands still digging for something inside the man-sized chest.

"What did you mean?" Priscilla asked the pyromancer in confusion. "Does the box vary in size?"

Laurentius sighed and ran a hand through his hair, "These bottomless boxes adapt to how many items its owner stores inside of it. Depending on the frequency of each use, it changes both shape and size to make it easier on the owner of the box."

"While most people only visit their box at bonfire's - making them appear too large to cart around - Argon has adapted it to work at a moment's notice, thus altering it's size to something pocket sized and portable," the blacksmith continued, a hand stroking his beard as he began to catch the various pieces of what appeared to be black stone with the other. Argon seemed to be tossing them to him at different intervals.

"And yet the damn thing still weigh's a ton." Argon murmured and finally lifted the last piece of black obsidian from the chest, tossing it to Andre who caught it deftly in his gloved hands.

"However, I don't know what you're complaining for, Laurentius. Yours must be just as large as mine."

"You must think I'm bonkers if I'm going to cart that much junk around with me. They only thing I store in my box are my pyromancy tomes and a few other items like soul capsules and moss."

"And _that_ is waste of good souls."

"If the two of your are quite done," Andre interrupted and placed the greatsword on top of the anvil before hammering one of the black stone shards into the metal, "do you mind telling me what exactly you need all this reinforced weaponry for?"

"Of course not," said Argon, pocketing the box once it shrunk down to size again, "we're going to kill a few Lord's and take their soul's."

The blacksmith grunted and placed another shard into the giant blade, holding it in place with a pair of large tongs as he brought the steel hammer down on it again and again, creating sparks that coated the blade and lit up the the space momentarily.

"Well then, you'll also be needing reinforced armour. It won't be cheap."

Argon snorted and produced a swirling white orb from a different pouch, holding it in his right hand as the souls within it writhed and danced in an intricate performance. Priscilla looked at the orb intently and sensed a presence from within. It was human, and felt almost like a warrior - no - a long forgotten knight, and a proud one at that. She watched him crush it without a second thought, slitted-emerald eye's observing the mass of white light being absorbed by the masked undead. Through his clothes, his arms, his legs, the smaller balls of energy within darted into him with a soft sigh before the light faded completely.

He turned back to the hunched over blacksmith and folded his arms.

"When is it ever cheap?" Andre simply laughed.

Argon took off his mask for a moment and scratched the black veins that were pooled at the side of his jaw. She watched him as his eyes furrowed at the feeling, as if the affected area were mildly sore, before combing a hand through his black hair and replacing the porcelain mask. She was slightly worried for him, if her uncle had said he was already infected by the Abyss they would need to find a cure for it quickly, or at least a method to delay it's spread.

"Hey old man," Argon spoke again as he passed a shield to Laurentius to try on, "I need new clothes for Priscilla, she's shrinking." He pointed a thumb in her direction and she flushed red. Could he _not_ go the remainder of the day telling everyone of her predicament?

The blacksmith looked at him, then turned to her before going back to his work.

"I'm a blacksmith, not a tailor. Give her those baggy garments you seem to dislike to much."

The undead grumbled under his breath about cheeky old men before continuing to take out weapons, clothing and other item's to reinforce. The remainder of the day was spent doing just that as Priscilla resigned herself to rest next to the bonfire upstairs, dozing into a comfortable nap as the sun shone through the rafters, warming the decayed Church with it's rays.

She was woken an hour later by Laurentius and they waited for short while for Argon to pay the remainder of his fee to the old blacksmith before climbing the stair's.

"There," Andre spoke, a happy glint in his eye as he held up the reinforced greatsword for Argon to take back, "she's not at her prime but she's not another old bag either. The abyssal corruption that began to melt the metal has been stopped, too."

Argon grasped the silver hilt and hauled it up, muscles straining even though some of the weight in the blade had been lessened.

"She's enchanted now, with the ability to cut through ghosts without the need for transient souls." Argon turned his head to him and nodded, placing the blade back into storage and drawing his velkian rapier before walking away.

"Be careful out there," Andre said to him and the undead turned his head when he was halfway up the stairway.

"No one wants to see you go hollow."

He huffed and nodded, walking up to join his companions before grasping the hilt of the coiled sword at the bonfire and taking them away in swirl of flames and smoke.

* * *

Deep within the dark expanse of massive trees and cloaked ent's, who's wooden bodies creaked like the bones of an old man, sat a smiling Cheshire cat, comfortably nestled atop a stone-carved slit of what remained of an old watchtower. Her tail swished happily in the air as she lazily stared out through the cracks in the watchtower at Darkroot Garden. To passersby on the outskirts of the forest, they would all see nothing but thick trees and sodden soil that would do little more than dirty their boots should they enter it, a thought that drove many away from the quiet peak of nature perched precariously over a cliff.

But if one had to look beyond the pure dullness of the fact that it was a forest, however, and focus their gazes directly passed the now opened gates of the great open space, they would faintly notice the frame of a full-plated knight a few paces away from the broken staircase that descended toward the forest floor. At first glance one would think they were seeing things, at a second glance they would perceive that a ghost was standing guard over the entrance - but to the Cheshire cat, the knight was just an average garrison of the domain she was entrusted to protect. Alvina, she was called, a spirit of the Darkroot Garden that had lived during the days of the Lordran's prosperity, forever thrust with the charge to protect the forest from intruders and ensure it's tranquillity.

The cat stretched her chubby hind legs and mewled out a small yawn as she felt her large, blue-slitted eyes begin to droop from boredom. Or perhaps it was sheer laziness? She didn't know and she didn't quite care. She had done her job in dutifully protecting the forest, using the humans that had made a covenant with her as guards, soldiers and assassin's to dispatch any and all unwanted attention the garden might invite.

At least… that _was_ her plan, and it would have gone on for another few generations uninterrupted, were it not for that masked undead that had wandered into the forest after breaking the seal on the very doors Artorias had enchanted and Sif had protected. Alvina's duty as the peacekeeper of the garden was to ensure that no one disturbed the resting place of the tomb of the great abysswalker. Indeed many had come and gone before her vigilant eyes, brandishing swords and axes to claim the rewards the Knight's grave was said to have held. Armies of a kingdom's best warriors had entered the forest before - no doubt using the crest that materialistic blacksmith had made - and fought their way through the assortment of knights, thieves, and brigand's just to reach the massive doors of the rested swordsman, only to be entirety slaughtered as the Knight's trusted pet and comrade had come from behind a ring of trees to protect what remained of his master's legacy.

Sif was one of the last great grey-wolves that survived the passage of time, and with his adoption by Artorias, had grown to become an adversary of quantative proportions - almost as unmatched in swordplay as his master. Though, that being said, it had been more of a shock to the plump cat when that masked undead had simply walked right into Artorias's gravesite and put down the titanic beast without even a mortal wound. What had shocked Alvina more than Sif's demise was the pained howl that had escaped his maw when encountering the small human, as if the grey wolf was mourning for the loss of a loved one. The cat had kept her gaze fixed on the two as they battled, however, never blinking as his greatsword screeched off of the undead's shield and armour.

The battle they fought was quick. Though the partner of Artorias was both fierce and deft in his attacks, the human was faster, more nimble, and in a matter of minutes he had brought Sif down to his haunches; bleeding heavily from gashes along his flank and underside as the human before him had casually flicked blood from his weapon, like the act of slaying a great beast was little more than fishing. Still, for a man that had mercilessly wounded the wolf, he had also shown hesitation and remorse during Sif's final moments, taking his time to pat the wolf on the maw to cease his whimpers before finally sheathing his blade into Sif's heart, forever silencing the last great grey-wolf that had ever lived.

Alvina sighed out and closed her eyes, leaping down gracefully from her spot in the watchtower and padding softly outside to approach a heavy-set man in red armour, resting a murakumo on his shoulder. The warrior turned his helm-covered head in her direction after hearing her purr and, after nodding gently to her, set off with a faintly visible companion clad in black towards the entrance of the forest.

Even with the great wolf gone, there was still work to be done, and Alvina would be the one to complete it even if she _was_ lazy at heart. Drakroot's defences were to be doubled, its protector's trained better, least another undead manage to wander through the gates and wreck the unwanted havoc the previous one hadn't. She thought of the same human again as she paced around the legs of a nearby brigand near a cliff before walking through the tall trees to his left, tail standing tall and curled at the end as it swayed from side-to-side.

The masked man had opened the sealed doors with the same crest of Artorias the other one's had used, but for some reason the usual garrison's placed in wait there hadn't found him in sight nor had the chance to react as he either killed them before they could turn or just passed them without even a whisper in his footsteps. When he had appeared through the doors of the watchtower and looked at her through those horizontal slits he had for eyeholes on his mask, she had felt no malicious intent. No signs of aggression, nothing. It was as if he was completely emotionless - that is until he decided to open his mouth.

His voice was annoying and loud, and his body language had changed immediately when he spoke, shifting from stoic to chipper in the space of a heartbeat. It had tugged at her interest and she hadn't thought twice before asking him to join in a covenant with her to protect the garden and it's inhabitants. He was certainly skilled if he could slay her men without a sound, and she would be lying if she said she didn't need an ally with both brawn and brains. It was even more intriguing when he had kindly declined her offer, stating that he was only here to collect something of great importance before giving her a curt bow and walking passed her, amber eyes glowing through the mask in the darkness the woods provided.

After he had slain Sif and re-entered the watchtower she had teleported back to, he had done nothing but gaze at her, nod again, and walk off without saying a word. She hadn't said anything in reply but had noticed the slump in his shoulder's as he put down another one of her guards before leaving the garden. She knew the pain in the steps he took as he ascended those stairs out of the enchanted entrance. It had seemed he had known the grey-wolf just as well as Sif had known him…

Alvina shook her head to rid herself of needless thoughts as she returned to the sinking watchtower, there was no time to reminisce about the past. The defences she had put in place had finally been broken down and whittled to less than half of her forces. She had lost big time when the wolf had died, and to add salt to injury the masked undead had also peppered her hydra full of grisly holes from a dragonslayer bow and severed five of it's head's. She would be hard pressed to find another like the ancient beast. They had also gone to near extinction for their scales, and the last she had heard of another being sighted in Lordran was in Ash Lake, a place she wouldn't travel to if it were the last safely unhabitabed sanctuary in the world.

She flicked her tail boredly and paced around in a circle. Even if she _did_ find another monster to replace her lack of an army, she doubted she would be needing one now. What was worth monetary value in the forest was taken away with that masked undead, anyways, and even if more undead did end up coming to her domain, she doubted _he _would be amongst them. Darkroot garden had already left a scar in his soul that could never heal after killing Sif.

_He wouldn't be coming back any time soon._

Just as Alvina was about to jump back onto her perch to drift back into that nap her body had called upon earlier, she stopped. The hair's on her tail stood on end and her heart sped up as an offending presence made itself known within the forest. In an instant, her guards came in through the watchtower entrance, weapons brandished in a protective ring around her as a black vortex opened up at the top of a broken set of stairs to their right.

"Abyssal fiends," she sneered and two sorcerer's readily prepared Homing Soulmass spells, orbs of azur flame emerging around the bodies of every warrior in the area, floating like ghost's in wait for prey to possess. "watch yourselves! If a Darkwraith appears stray from his grasp."

Her guards nodded and tensed as they all saw a black-armoured boot emerge from the vortex, stomping loudly on the step and disturbing the dust that layered the stone.

"Alvina." said a voice behind the cat and she turned to see the red-armoured warrior from before with his transparent companion in tow.

"We were summoned by your call. What's going on?" He asked in an eastern accent, lifting his hand to indicate a ring with a pearl set into it that seemed to emit a flickering light as if in warning.

"The Abyss, Shiva. The dying of the Flame has brought it to Darkroot…"

The warrior needed no further explanation as he drew his blade and ran toward the cluster of his comrades, his black-clad companion following silently drawing a blade of his own that was the length of his very body and stood in wait, poised to strike.

The vortex swirled ominously as another limb emerged from it's black mass, also clad in menacing charred armour. Soon the legs of the intruder were visible from the waist down, and before the figure had time to fully emerge it was struck by a volley of azur flames that burst apon impact. The sorcerer's that stood midguard wasted no time in chanting the next incantation, staff's swirling in a circle and forming a second wave of Homing Soulmass that erupted around the warrior's angrily.

Smoke and dust permeated the broken stairway as they waited in anticipation. Arms adjusting their grips on axes, swords and shield's. The few cleric's that were with the small cluster of warrior's briefly fished out talisman's from thier pouches and prayed scriptures of guidance and protection before the dust settled and the sound of another loud stomp echoed throughout the hollow structure. The vortex continued to swirl as they saw the tall frame of a man dressed in the armour of a Black Knight - save for his head. He wore an old mask of stained porcelain, carved into a visage of the sickening grin of a demented child. Around his body light sped vertically in swipes of green before disappearing in sparkles that blinked prettily in the dark, the only non-menacing sight about the intruder. In his hands rested a blood-stained greatsword that shone a cold charcoal in the dim light. The figure chuckled dryly as he noticed warriors positioned at the entrance of the structure he stood in.

"My, I didn't expect such a… warm welcome." His voice was playful, as if he were amused at the outcome his arrival had caused. The vortex behind him closed quietly as he finished speaking.

"Is that how you welcome _all_ of the people that visit this dull greenery?"

"Attack!" Shiva screamed as the man lept from the staircase, sword raised above him as he fell through the air, blue flames bursting off his armour but not jarring him in the slightest as the warriors attempted to clear the way from his landing. Two weren't so lucky as they were impaled by the man's greatsword, the stone ground cracking loudly underneath and sending out a vast expanse of spidercracks that reached the outer ends of the watchtower's entrance. Around him, dust swirled and blanketed the further dilapidated structure of stone.

He raised his head to the warrior's beyond the watchtower and Alvina hissed angrily, sharp teeth bared as he pulled his sword from the ground with one hand, taking slow but intimidating steps forward as he approached the open area.

The swirling balls of soul energy wasted no time in hurtling towards their target, spinning in a circular motion as they all homed in on the figure. Altogether they came and the man did nothing but raise his sword, the offensive spells exploding against it but doing nothing to stop his pace as he continued to march forward. The two cleric's rushed in to meet the man as his vision was temporarily blinded by the attack. The first one slammed his morning star against his sword with a mighty swing that clanged against the blade, jarring the black figure's arm slightly as the second cleric sprinted to his exposed flank and slammed his smaller mace against it, his armour rattling at the impact.

The Darkwraith made an amused sound and flicked his wrist, his blade decapitating the second cleric in one swift motion, sending his headless body flying backwards before it hit the ground with a wet thud. The other cleric's eyes widened and raised his shield quickly as an almighty force struck it and flung him back a meter, making him tumble onto his back.

"Charge!" Someone amongst the group shouted and a guard dressed as a thief dashed forward, dagger pointed to score a slash between the Darkwraith's chainmail. He saw it coming, however, and almost lazily raised his boot that smashed into the theif's face, a sickening crunch resounding before he fell like a sack of potatoes, dead.

He turned his head towards one of the sorcerer's that was chanting a longer incantation and stomped forward, his other hand taking on a pure white hue as it grabbed the scholar by the throat and hoisted him into the air before anyone could blink. The cleric from before made a move to strike the unprotected Darkwraith.

"Stop you fool!" Alvina shouted but was too late as his mace connected with the Darkwraith's armour and went sprawling as a ripple of energy rebounded off of him and sent the cleric back again. He didn't get up this time.

"Stand far back from his reach, a Darkwraith can kill you with a simple touch."

The black-clad wraith in question simply chuckled as he absorbed the life force from the sorcerer. His eye's rolled back as he choked, spittle flying from his lips as his body hollowed out and dryed into a lifeless, empty husk. The wraith's hand stopped glowing as he dropped the body and turned back around to block a strike from above that was aimed to split his head in two. Shiva grunted as their swords were linked together, both men pushing at the other in a battle of strength. It was clear that the wraith was winning as Shiva's murakumo was brought closer and closer to his helm, the blunt side of the cruved blade almost touching the eastern man's eyehole as he strained against the taller man. Sparks began flying from their swords like miniature grasshopper's colored white and orange.

Shiva noticed a glint behind the wraith and immediately lurched backwards. The Darkwraith's sword screeched against Shiva's and he used the opportunity to flick his wrist again, knocking the large sword from Shiva's grasp as a loud _shinck_ sounded and the wraith stumbled forward. He turned his head and stared at the transparent warrior clad in black as if only noticing him now.

"I see you didn't notice my companion until it was too late," Shiva taunted and crouched down to retrieve his blade, "I must warn you, he's quiet skilled when it comes to scuffles like this."

The wraith ignored the heavy-set red warrior and regarded the semi transparent foe. He tightened his grip on his greatsword and tilted his head to the side.

"That's a Washing Pole, right?" He asked looking at the extended sword that gleamed wickedly in the dimly lit forest.

"Huh." He swung his sword in an arc before swiping it down to meet the smaller warrior that backfliped away from the attack and used the momentum to deliver a thrust at the Darkwraith. He used the flat of his blade to block the strike and twisted, giant blade speeding to meet the masked warrior's head. The lither man ducked and jabbed forward again but the wraith used his free hand to grab the blade and stopped him dead in his tracks.

He tried to free the washing pole by jerking it back and forth, attempting to slice through the thick armour of the wraith but it didn't help and was suddenly pulled forward as the wraith tugged the sword point roughly. The semi visible man's eyes widened as he was impaled by the greatsword, a choked gasp leaving his lips as the Darkwraith stuck the blade deeper.

"No!" Shiva cried and swung downward in a blind rage but was knocked sideways as the wraith swung his sword towards him before jerking it back at the last second, the dead body on it careening through the air and slamming into Shiva.

The eastern man turned onto his back, winded. He was attempting to stand when an armour-clad boot stomped against his breastplate, trapping him from moving. Shiva growled at the wraith and with his last ounce of strength, swung his murakumo, watching with satisfaction as the blade connected with the Darkwraith's face and shattered his mask. The green lines around his body evaporated at the mask fell to the floor in pieces, the wraith's head turned to the side with the force Shiva's strike brought.

"How's that for a welcome, Darkwraith?"

The wraith in question, instead of retorting or striking back out of anger, simply began to laugh. It was a light chuckle first, before it quickly escalated to a loud cackle that scared away the birds and angered the stuck warrior further.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, nothing really…" the wraith replied, raising his left hand to remove the bindings that held the now destroyed mask to his face.

"I just think your sense of humor has the worst timing."

The binding's gave way and he dropped them to the blood-soaked ground, sighing out as his black hair spilled out to frame his face, a small part on the side of his head that separated the left from the longer right strands of hair. From behind the wraith, near the edge of the cliff face, a startled Alvina gasped in shock.

_It cannot be! The undead from before… but how did he…_

The Darkwraith turned his head to her, amber eyes shining like fire as he noticed her presence.

"Ah, a cat." Alvina's eyes widened as he spoke, hand gripping the hilt of his drenched sword tightening, "I'll be with you in a _moment_."

_No, it can't be him, this undead's voice seems different somehow, and the power to summon the Abyss was not with the human that slew Sif… _

"Alvina…" Shiva managed to choke out, his energy drained and his lungs slowly being crushed by the wraith's boot on his chest, "...run from her- AGH!"

"Don't speak," the wraith said, increasing the pressure his foot held on the eastern warrior, "just… **_die_ **."

Alvina gasped again as she heard Shiva's chest concave with a loud _crunch_. He spewed blood from his mouth that oozed out from his eyeholes as he gave a final breath, sighing out as his body went limp.

The Darkwraith lifted his boot from Shiva's now broken chest and started to pace toward the Cheshire cat, pale features gleaming in what light came through the thick tree trunks of the forest, an expanse of black veins pooling up from beneath the wraith's armour, up his neck, and curling around the left side of his face until the corner of his eye. The grin he kept was maniacal.

Alvina stared at him, fixing her thoughts and grinning back, her whiskered face a mask of triumph.

"So you think you've bested me, do you?" She purred, her tail flicking the air tauntingly as he approached.

"I _know_ I've bested you, yet you seem to think otherwise. Why is that?"

"My guards will be back soon, you fool. They are undead, they will _not_ fall easily."

The Darkwraith only grinned wider.

"I see… then I shall wait for their… _arrival_."

He stopped less than a meter from her and stared down smugly, sword dripping blood that pooled beneath it's tip. Alvina was about to retort when she noticed something odd. She glanced behind him at the many bodies on the floor and noticed none of them had burst into white light and dissipated by the burning of their Darksign's after death. Something was wrong.

She turned back to the wraith that grinned broader, his face looking almost similar to hers, were the wickedness and insanity not burned into his eye's. Alvina began to tremble her tubby body.

"You… y-you stopped the Darksign from activating in them…"

"I'm afraid not even_ I_ have the power to do that, _cat_."

She turned her wide eyes to his, teeth bared at him as she hissed back. "Then what have you done to them?"

"Haven't you known all along? Whan a Darkwraith kills anything, he absorbs _everything_ from it. Life, soul, spirit, memories and happiness. Even with an undead, when they are killed by us… they can never be _reborn_."

Alvina gulped loudly, throat going dry as she walked backwards as the wraith began to advance again. This man - whether the same undead or not - had slaughtered her guards, her trusted right hand men, and for what? What was it he wanted here? Why did he come to Lordran from the Abyss? And why did he resemble the very same human that Sif had known and battled in anguish? She had to know.

"Then before you finally end me," she began and he stopped his actions, sword raised above his head prepared to swing down like a guillotine, "are you the same human that slew the great grey-wolf?"

"I was, yes… but I'm not the _same_ man which you spoke to before."

Alvina furrowed her furry eyebrows, it was almost funny were it not for the predicament she was currently in now.

"Then who are you?!"

The wraith grinned so wide his cheeks threatened to split in two.

"I was _once_ the man you knew as Argon. _Now,_ I am simply **_not_ **Argon." He said as Alvina stood there, terrified as the Darkwraith that was not Argon swung his blade downwards onto the Cheshire cat.

A wet _crunch_ was all that was heard thereafter.

* * *

**I do apologise for updating later than usual(though I also admit that I don't exactly _have_ a specific update schedule), I was preoccupied with a few personal matters - as well as the fact that I had completely messed up drafting this chapter and I had to cut/copy/paste soooo many times. I'm just glad I finally finished it.**

**Also, I decided to watch Spirited Away for literally the thousandth time and I got hit in the feels all over again by falling in love with Chihiro and Kohaku's story. What a perfect way to start the new year by watching an anime so perfect, it didn't require a sequel or series adaptation. I'm so happy I was born in the new century and raised like an 80's kid. God bless Studio Ghibli(am I spelling it right? Sorry, can't remember) It truly was one of the best movies of the century. My great grandchildren will definitely be watching it!**

**If you haven't watched Spirited Away yet, please do, as well as all the other wonderful creations by the same company. I guarantee you won't be disappointedl(I say this a person that has never cried except for after watching those blessed movies)**

**Anyway, my obsession aside (I LOVE YOU CHIHIRO AND HAKU!!!!!!!!?!!!) Please do R , I'd love to hear your thoughts on the new character I've placed at the end of this chapter.**

**Thank you for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A HUGE thank you to everyone that has reviewed thus far, I'm really grateful that people are even bothering to read my work - it's very surprising indeed - and thank you for your constructive criticism, it really makes me giddy and stuff (I like flames, okay? It's not my fault I'm a wee bit masochistic… right?)**

**Now let us dive head first into the spectacle of gore and vio-lence! (*maniacal cackle)**

**_-And there we go again with you creeping out the audience. Real smooth there, slick._ **

**Wha? It's you! What are you doing in my author's note?**

**-_Preventing you from acting like a complete fool. After what you said on your Bio, I came here to check if things are alright. Obviously, my gut was right, you're causing pandemonium again._ **

**Your gut _is_ my gut! This makes no sense at all!**

**_-That's why I'm the illogical part of your brain. _**

**When has that been a thing?**

**-_Been keeping it real since '09, sonny boy._ **

**Yeah, well… just… let me write my story! (*huffs)**

**_-As you command(*smirk)_ **

* * *

If there was one thing constant in Lordran besides the ever-growing population of hollows, the shining sun, and a near overabundance of souls that seemed to slip and slide like water through an undeads fingers, it was the cool breeze that the giant landmass offered. It was gentle when it brushed against Priscilla's face like motherly fingers caressing her cheek. It cooled down her rush of emotions whenever she was teased by her undead savior, and occasionally - though not very often at the same time - their flame-wielding companion that would utter a small jib of words that would either diffuse the situation or antagonize it further. The air in Lordran had also made a habit of lifting her mood when she was feeling downcast or worried by flinging her white hair in maddening directions that distracted her bubbling mind and forced an uncontrollable giggle from her lips that lightened the hearts of the humans that were with her.

The wind was always a pleasurable constant to her and Priscilla took a liking to it better than the harsh bite that the Painted World would offer with its endless Winter and flurries of dirty snow. Other than provide her with unending repose, it didn't choke her of oxygen like the blizzard world had. Here in the sun or the rain she could inhale as deeply as her lungs would allow and speak annals of words and phrases until her throat was raw from use. In the Painted World, it had felt vastly different because of her height and the fact that the ruined city was situated on a massive cliff-face. The altitude had robbed her of the plentiful supply of breathable air Lordran possessed, and her height had only added to her misery; leaving her winded and gasping softly when fighting intruders or generally walking around to pass the time, and it had amazed her that she had lived there for over a century knowing the conditions were hazardous to even a goddess.

She supposed that she owed it to her father that she had survived so long. It didn't take a Dragon School Scholar to figure out that having the genes of an everlasting beast ensured your endurance and survival chances were increased by the thousands due to their monolithic bodies and unparalleled longevity that overwhelmed even the god's. The scales that dragons wore were also enchanted by unknown magic that kept them alive even during the worst of circumstances; ranging from suffering mortal wounds, to slowly dying of starvation, to just general old age. The pale scales that adorned the cross-breed's body and the abominable blood that flowed through her veins were proof enough that she was already prepared to survive eternity in a world concocted by a maniac before she had actually entered into it.

She sighed softly as she sat waiting for her companions, scythe propped up against the rock form jutting out like a brown-faced guard at a royal ball. There wasn't much room for her to really stretch out onto as she gazed at the parallel cliffs of green joined by a simple oaken plank, so she had tucked her slender white legs into her chest as she enjoyed the breeze of the higher platform whoosh against her face and whistle to the west, flying by like a drifting bard. Her arms encircled her shin's and she sighed out a thin puff of icy breath as she felt the edge of her gown being pulled by the wind and looked up to see the frilly material billowing out like a fair coat at her feet.

She had continued to shrink as Argon had theorized and was currently half the height she was when she had met the undead. She wasn't mad or angry or sad at the revelation that her height was merely an illusion, in fact it was quite the opposite. At least now she would be able to fit in with her companions and not draw attention at every friendly face they encountered, undead or otherwise, it was a relief not to be taller than her male friends. When she had thought about it more carefully, she was slightly embarrassed at the notion. How would she have even been able to cuddle against the masked man one day when he came up to her waist in height? Moreover, she didn't think he would enjoy it when she would have to be the one to lean down for them to actually kis-

Wait a moment.

She stopped and blinked dumbly. Why had she been thinking about scooting closer to the undead at night? And why had her mind flown to him and her locking lips? She blushed, closed her eyes and shook her head at the foreign thought.

They would never do something like that. Argon was her savior, but moreover her friend. They had bonded well and had formed a relationship that wouldn't necessarily lead to anything romantic; after all, he was always formulating jokes and sparking interesting conversations with her, he would never understand the feelings she denied she had for him… right?

Priscilla became slightly saddened by the thought and pouted like a stubborn child. She knew it probably wouldn't end up happening, but at the same time she didn't want it to _not_ happen. Argon was special to the goddess, and she knew he felt the same towards her in return. Maybe they wouldn't end up as anything more than friends and when their journey would end, he would probably just say something foolish to her in good humor before he relinked the Flame. Yet in her heart, she yearned for something; before he entered the Kiln, she still wanted to experience his warmth up close during the coldest of nights when she attempted to feign shivering and ask to cuddle with him. She had the urge to wrap her arms around his pale body and press her rose-colored lips against his undoubtedly tasty-

Wait, wait, _waaait_ a moment…

She blinked again and shook her head in frustration. What was she _doing_? She shouldn't be thinking about this right now, what was even wrong with her thoughts today? She turned a bright shade of scarlet and her eyes widened in shock.

Was she in heat? She was, wasn't she? It explained the out of character imagination and indecent urges to be intimate with her friend and companion. But did half-breed dragons like her even _go_ into heat? She was also half goddess after all so maybe it was that time in her life when she became increasingly needy for companionship? She _was_ nearly two centuries old, though she was loathing to admit she was a day over a hundred-and-ten. Yes, maybe that was it. What was it that the servants of her mother had always said? There was no greater love than a goddess's desire?

Priscilla shook her head again and sighed out, the fast approaching wind taking the sound away from her mouth and into the vast valley in front of her. She was thinking about her height, not Argon, she berated herself.

Her clothing was indeed twice the size of her now, and she had done her best to remodel the apparel, albeit with much hesitation. She still treasured it above even her scythe and her tail. It was a gift from her aunt, Velka, the only god that had bothered to visit her in the Painted World, even if the dark god _was_ breaking the rules of her grandfather, and as such she felt immense sentimentality towards the filigreed garment.

Priscilla had first attempted to tie the hanging edges around her calves to allow a better way to walk when it began bunching up at her feet, tripping her more than a few times. Thereafter she had decided to roll up the sleeves and pin them up, but the material was so thick and heavy that it just fell back down over her hands whenever she swung her scythe and ruined her attacks, leaving her vulnerable to injury.

And so, with a heavy heart and a pat on her shoulders from both human companions', she had severed the fabric's sleeves and bottom edges so that she could actually move freely again, and Laurentius and Argon had offered to store the cut fabric in their respective storage spaces to which she had kindly declined. She would have to move on eventually, her aunt was gone now, and she needed to begin anew without any ties to her miserable past.

She frowned as she thought, and a strand of white hair flew into her face, wrapping itself up around her right cheek and tickling her neck. She was still shrinking, and the masked undead estimated it to only stop when she reached the height of an average human woman, which meant the cut gown she was wearing right now would soon need to go too, it had already began hindering her movements if the torn ends flying in the wind past her small feet was anything to go on. She supposed Argon wouldn't mind lending her a pair of human-sized attire if she asked him, or even Laurentius for that matter…

What was more worrying was the state of her undergarments. She hadn't said anything to the two men for obvious reasons. Some things were just too personal for other's ears anyways. Her chest bindings had unraveled a few times, but they wouldn't be a problem if she kept re-tying them. It was her underwear that threatened to run away with the wind, however.

What was it that Laurentius had called them? Knockers? No, knicker's? Something like that.

She exhaled again, frosted air spilling from her lips again as she waited for said pyromancer and masked undead. They had returned to Firelink for only a few moments to briefly speak with the warrior in chainmail that sat, dejected as ever, at the shrine's bonfire, which for some odd reason lacked the living flames it usually did. Apparently, he had found another method of traversing into the lower levels of Lordran without venturing into the Depth's again; a place, Priscilla noted, that made their fire-wielding friend shiver uncomfortably at.

According to the monotone undead, there was an old lift system below the bonfire that led to the ruins of New Londo, a place they would find one of the Lord Soul's, were it not currently submerged in a dam of murky water. The place Argon had decided to go to in question was the plague-infested city of Blighttown, a 'cesspool' if she remembered the warrior correctly. Knowing that there was a quicker route available for the trio to journey through unhindered had been a pleasant sense of elation, what had occurred after they had walked down the flight of stairs to the right of the Crestfallen Warrior, however, was a morose experience indeed.

* * *

_They both stared bemused as Argon removed his mask from his face, blind rage sweeping across his normally passive features with startling difference, a deep growl emanating from his chest like the roaring of a white waterfall. He stood transfixed at a set of rusty iron bars that barred the way into a shallow, dark cave that held nothing more than bloodied rags for clothing pooled at its entrance. Atop the pile of clothing that looked like it would suit a more feminine body rested two items that gave off what little light it could to attempt to illuminate the expansive darkness of the hole in the rock face. Laurentius had made a move to reach for said objects but was stopped by his undead companion that beat him to it, uncharacteristically dropping the porcelain mask onto the moss-covered ground of the jutting out piece of earth, thoroughly shocking both pyromancer and goddess as they gave each other pensive glances before turning back to the man in question._

_He had been oddly quiet since their arrival at Firelink after seeing the dying embers of the bonfire and had only opened his normally chattery lips to ask necessary questions to the crestfallen warrior. When they had climbed down the stairway to the chainmail undeads right, the two were ecstatic at the prospect of going through a route that held no foes to face and exhaust themselves with, eagerly racing each other like children - though they both knew that Priscilla's height advantage would name her the victor of their short game - but had abruptly stopped when they noticed the absence of their masked companion absent from their bubble. Their questions had only been answered when they cast a backward glance to witness a stoic Argon shaking with unbridled anger at the center of the rock face before joining his side utterly confused and quite miffed. The undead **never** got riled up, no matter the circumstance._

_The first item he held in his hand was a dull, cracked orb - slightly larger than a soul capsule - with what looked to be a reptilian eyeball encased in crystal. Red crystal to be precise. The trio eyed the orb pensively before Argon dumped it into a pouch impatiently, muttering incoherent words as he lifted the second item from the clothing pile; amber eyes flaming with a sudden ferocity as he found what he was looking for and another menacing growl fled from his lips. Priscilla's senses began to fill with adrenaline and tensed up at the killing intent her companion was emitting._

_Her emerald eye's flashed to the pure white ball in his hand. Well it wasn't a ball to be correct, just a mass of small fluffy tentacles and white light that blended into one full ball of energy. The hand-sized thing gave off a familiar feeling of mourning and pain the more she stared at it, and only after she had raised a clawed finger to prod it gently did realization hit her and force a gasp form her lips. It was a Firekeeper soul._

_"Anastasia." Argon said through gritted teeth, causing both companions to look at him._

_"She was the Firekeeper trapped in this hell hole by those damnable villagers of her hometown. According to Cresty upstairs; they had tortured her for her fate, and when her screams began to annoy them from days of lashings, stoning's and starvation, the bastards had severed her tongue before shipping her off to Lordran to suffer like the wretch they made her to be."_

_Priscilla's heart clenched painfully at the news, knowing all too well the cruel fate life dealt people - her own not being a cool walk in the garden either - but to understand the pain this unknown woman had been through drove stakes of anguish into her chest. It didn't matter how bad one's destiny was, to be treated worse than scum by your own village - and for a human no less - was a fate worse than simple isolation and imprisonment, it was outright inhumane. Not that she quite knew how it was to be human, anyways._

_"She didn't need to die. She didn't deserve this, not one bit…"_

_"You know who did it, don't you?"_

_Argon's face softened, and he gave Laurentius a sad look in reply, his hands protectively clutching the soul to his chest, as if it would be blown away by the wind at a moment's notice. The pyromancer sighed and placed a comforting hand on the man's shoulder. The bags under Argon's eyes seemed to grow more hollow, whether from the exhaustion or the curse they had no clue, just that he seemed to break out of his sorrow to sneer at the cave, eye's narrowing as the sun dipped and casted light into the cave displaying the now dried blood that adorned the hole in splatters and crooked stripes. To the end of the cave he noticed a shard of golden metal reflecting the sun back onto his face and Argon burned with an uncontrollable rage as his theory was proven correct._

_"Lautrec, you bastard. I'll kill you…"_

_The black veins on his chin began to slowly move upwards towards his sideburns and the corner of his mouth as he turned from his friends and reattached his mask to his face after retrieving it._

* * *

It had been the second time that Priscilla had ever seen him want to kill so eagerly, and quite frankly it scared the goddess. He hadn't been in hollow form but the psychotic tinge in his voice seemed to return from before and for a moment she wondered how much the man had endured to gain all that encapsulated rage strong enough to change his personality completely. He had briefly spoken about his past - by not saying more than a few words about it - but most about him was lost to her as snow was to the harsh winds of Winter. Other than the appearance and attitude he gave before and after her rescue from the Painted World, Priscilla admitted she knew little to nothing at all about the ambiguous and enigmatic being that was Argon. She knew he was from a land near to Carim, the pale skin tone and defined features held more than enough weight to narrow that down, even though her knowledge of the outside kingdom's was vague at best. She also knew that Argon's upbringing was of nobility, if his manner of speech and certain fighting styles were anything to go on; his vocabulary spoke annals of time for a mere human whilst the methods of which he wielded various weapons possessed a specific poise only native to those of high standing, even though he boasted to fighting dirty at any and all costs.

Her thoughts broke as she heard two pairs of footsteps approach her position next to an old but sturdy gate and stood when she noticed a familiar mop of semi-long raven hair pop into existence followed by the throaty chuckle of their swamp pyromancer. She reached for her scythe and twirled it behind her casually as Argon and Laurentius appeared from the musty-smelling ruins of New Londo.

Their crestfallen informant on the place had been to the tee in direction and explanation, although he had also failed to mention that at the entrance to New Londo housed over a dozen or so hollows. It was at least pleasing to notice that they were harmless if not antagonized, but a warning would have been useful, nonetheless. Then again, Priscilla wondered if the short-haired man even cared about their well-being, preferring to be left alone and wait at that crumpled pillar until all time ended.

"I was beginning to worry that the two of you had been spirited away by the inhabitants of that city." Priscilla said as the pair of men reached her, taking a moment to enjoy the fresh air that the valley offered. Laurentius was about to open his mouth to speak when Argon beat him to it.

"Do I look like Chihiro to you?"

They stared at the masked undead for a moment with frowns on their faces and he chuckled, raising a hand to awkwardly scratch his head.

"Uh, sorry… it's a story you wouldn't have heard before."

He laughed again and rocked on his feet like a child and Priscilla simply smiled at him. The moments whereby the undead _did _remember something from his past, he would blurt it out without hesitation. Whether it was because of excitement or if he feared not saying any would cause him to forget again was unknown to her. Quite frankly, she was just pleased he was able to share anything with the two of them at all.

They had found a Dragon Scholar locked behind bars in the corner of the flooded city and befriended him after he had seen the Magic Ember their pyromancer was carting around before he begged to use it to enchant armaments. Priscilla had decided to wait for the pair of undead to converse with the smith, Rickett, taking Argon's master key to unlock the gate that lead to the valley and opting to rather wait for them in a place that didn't dampen her mood and senses alike. She was glad that his time spent with the smith and Laurentius had peeled away his anger and rage.

"You're a tad bonkers, you are." Laurentius stated, still giving him a curious look to which the undead simply shrugged at before moving passed them to cross the simple oak platform that creaked under his weight.

"You chose to aide me in my suicidal quest, don't say I didn't warn you. Now come on."

The pyromancer chuckled as he followed his companion, casting a frown at the large cavern further to their right before sighing heavily, only to immediately gasp at the stench that assaulted his nose before lifting a hand to try and block out the horrid attack on his nostril's.

"I fled from the Depth's only to enter into a diseased town that smells like sweat and filthy sewage… you really are trying to turn me hollow, aren't you?"

"Aw don't be so negative, you'll insult your hometown." Argon smirked beneath his mask as Laurentius sent him a glare, turning to look at a nervous Priscilla that stood timidly at the foot of the makeshift bridge.

"I-I don't think this oak will be safe for me to cross." She said, prodding a clawed toe at the wood that creaked in response, reaffirming the cross-breed's hesitation.

"Whaaaat?" Argon exclaimed as she turned to look at him, slitted eye's stuck in an innocent frown. "You've shrunk to just over half your size and you _still_ think you can't make it across!"

Priscilla narrowed her eyes at him and he smirked again, this would be funny.

"Well it is a shame," he began and ignored Laurentius' warning glance, he wanted to mess with the goddess a bit. "if you were still a tiny, _tiny_ smidge taller you could have easily jumped across without any hassle at all, the predicaments we find ourselves stuck in these days…" he shook his head feigning exasperation.

The cross breed pouted at him, he knew jabs at her height was still a sore spot for her because he teased her senseless, this was just the final nail in the coffin as she placed a determined look on her face and took a few small strides backwards until her back was up against the wall. Laurentius immediately widened his eyes at the obvious ploy she had fallen for.

"Now wait my lady, just take a breather and think about this for a mome-" it was too late to finish his sentence as he saw the cross-breed goddess run a short distance before leaping into the air, hair and gown flying in multiple directions as her body glided through the sky.

The momentum she built up would have taken her the whole way too were it not for the wind rushing horizontally that pushed her off trajectory and caused her to descend much faster. Panic filled her eyes at the realization that she had fallen for the childish prank and that she wasn't going to make it. She lifted her scythe above her head before slamming it into the rock below them as her body slammed into the side of the valley wall painfully, leaving her hanging by a blade. Laurentius shot him another glare as Argon crumpled to the floor in uncontrollable laughter. He rushed to Priscilla's side and hefted her up, noting that she wasn't as heavy as Argon had teased. A sigh escaped from his mouth as the goddess finally stood, pulling out her scythe and glaring daggers at Argon who just laughed harder. The pyromancer didn't have a chance to say anything as she simply inhaled deeply, letting air fill her lungs to the max and expelled a torrent of ice at the undead.

"Did you see your face?! Ha ha ha ha-**GAH!**"The ice breath knocked him off his feet and kept him suspended a foot above the ground against the cave wall.

"So-o c-c-c-c-cold!"

She walked passed his frozen form, a triumphant smirk on her face before she harrumphed at him and turned her nose forward. Laurentius for his part simply rubbed the hair on his chin and sighed like an old man. These two were going to be the death of him one day, he swore.

* * *

While Laurentius was an orphan raised in a bog off the coast of whatever wasteland bordered his village's home, and was extremely proficient in crossing swamp's, mud and generally wet regions without the need for the rusted iron ring Argon seemed to require when travelling through waist high water… he was _not _exuberant like said masked undead when their group had descended from the rickety wooden lift mechanism operated by a lone hellhound before treading in actual poisoned muddy water. In fact, the first thing he had done to the masked man after unfreezing him was raise his gloved fist and smash it into Argon's exposed gut, a satisfied grin on his face when he wheezed out an apology before collapsing face first into the muck. The pyromancer may have been raised in a swamp but it didn't mean he enjoyed trekking through every damn one they came across in Lordran like some overjoyed regiment scout eager to please his superior.

The way down had been nothing but a nuisance from the start. First, three giant lizardmen had nearly eaten him whole when they couldn't club him to mush; then some weird mutated creature with multiple limbs had shot him in the chest with chaos fire - a most unpleasant experience that had both melted his tattered robes and left a funny zapping sensation in his body that he could taste on his tongue - and he didn't even want to remember the man-sized mosquito that had sprayed acidic blood onto his shield, melting the armament he had adored ever since Argon had gifted it to him at the Parish. The pyromancer had imagined that the worst was behind them until he had thereafter been shot in the _groin_ of all places by a bloody poisoned _dart. _It had taken almost a full hour of placating from Priscilla to calm himself and forgive Argon since it was only the journey that was perilous, and not the guide. At least they had found another Firekeeper soul in an old chest within the cavern that decayed lizard had stood garrison at.

The lift they had taken down was primitive at best, and they had to take it one at a time, least they risk falling to their death's only to be revived and repeat that horrendous process again. Then again, the swamp as an individual factor wasn't as bad as Laurentius had imaged. Sure, there were more of those chaos fire-spitting leg creatures and peskier mosquito's that expelled blood instead of ingesting it, but when they were taken out of the equation the bog the trio trudged through seemed almost peaceful. You just had to block out the hiss the thick muck would make when stepped on or the noxious gases that rose in the air like dirty clouds.

The pyromancer was even about to forgive Argon for all the troubles they'd faced so far with just a slap on the wrist. That was… until they came to a stop before a humongous white mount of fleshy tentacles and more giant lizardmen anchoring boulders in their hands.

"This is where you get off."

Laurentius' eye twitched and turned to give him a pointed stare. He had suffered being pummeled, sprayed, darted and flamed to death only to be left before an imposing splotch of sickly white goop with a melting hole for an entrance and told he was to go on some quest he didn't even know the nature of?

Priscilla noticed the air around them tense and quickly acted. "Ah, Argon… perhaps you should explain as to why we are leaving Sir Laurentius here so suddenly?"

Thank whatever god still remained on this miserable kingdom that she was able to read the room unlike a certain ambiguous undead.

"Hm?" Argon said before looking down slightly confused, as if what he had said was the most obvious thing in the world.

"I thought it was pretty clear, Laurentius here will brave Izalith and collect one of the Lord Soul's."

Said pyromancer gaped at him, murder in his eyes while the cross breed tried frantically to calm him down, her hands moving around wildly in the air as she again attempted to ease everyone back to square one, herself included.

"You're more than bonkers, mate. Now I understand completely, you're just bloody insane."

"While I don't disagree, I'm actually thinking tactically here."

"And how _exactly_," Laurentius seethed through his clenched jaw, "is sending me to my eminent death _alone_ a tactical decision?"

Argon nodded and moved further into the center of the island they were all standing on. He flicked off toxic muck from his boot as he did so and stood adjacent to a washed-up corpse just short of reaching a tall ivory pillar, ironically not stained with dull greens, browns and yellows like everything else here.

"We know there are a total of four Lord Soul's scattered throughout Lordran, all a substantial distance from one another." He began to which both Laurentius and Priscilla nodded in understand, the pyromancer still quite skeptical as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"That explains why we're here then, since Izalith is said to lie in the furthest corner of Lordran, underground." He said with a huff.

"Precisely." Replied Argon, absently prodding the undead corpse with a foot before looking up. "It's also one of the reason's I've opted for you to go at this one alone. We need to split up. Each one heading to an individual Lord Soul."

Priscilla looked at him pensively, lower lip caught between her teeth as she tried to wrap her head around the concept. It made sense to part ways. Each person heading to a respective Lord Soul to lessen the load and quicken the journey before the Flame died out completely; it would be the most anticlimactic occurrence if the Flame were to die before they had even collected all the soul's necessary to open the Kiln. At the same time Laurentius frowned at the masked undead.

His plan was clever but impractical on two points. One, they were comprised of a trio, there weren't enough people to head to all the Lord Soul's in time; and two, just a single person wouldn't be able to take down a possessor of a Lord Soul because it was just suicide and utter stupidity. Nobody he knew of possessed the power to face a great Lord alone, never mind the Witch of Izalith of all people. He wasn't the great Salaman. He couldn't hold a candle to his predecessor! What's more, even if they _did_ end up braving and collecting the three Lord Souls needed, their last one was still submerged in a city full of water. It was basically impossible to do, and he had heard rumors of ghost's living there that couldn't be harmed by conventional weapons. With that revelation, how in the world were they even meant to succeed in a quest given to them by a slimy serpent and a feminine-looking god?

"I know you have your doubts," Argon reassured and motioned for them to follow him as he walked around the square pillar. "But in your case, you won't exactly be working alone. We have an ally for now."

Laurentius frowned again at his cryptic words before they turned the final corner of the massive pillar to find a slender woman dressed head to toe in charcoal robes with gold rims on the sleeves and edges. A large cowl blocked her undoubtedly fair features from view if her pale toes were anything to go by, poking out from under her daintily.

"Ah, I see you've returned." She spoke in a soft voice as crisp as the morning air as she raised her head Argon's way. "And I see you've brought company. How delightful."

* * *

**Heyo all, my apologies for the delay in updates (although I'll remind myself that I don't exactly have an updating schedule), I've been a tad busy with work and the like. Can you believe how difficult it is to find an office fan with metal blades that _doesn't_ knock against the fan cage all the time? Terribly frustrating.**

**I left out the battle and fast-pace action in this chapter to focus on the supposed 'calm before the storm' by making the trio reinforce armaments like you would if you were playing the game. And yes, I've made Priscilla short, about a few centimeters taller than Ciaran (is that how you spell her name?). I thought that by doing so, I could flesh out more humorous scenes and fluffiness in later chapters, plus I'm just really waiting to write up a scene with her in black leather(don't look at me like that, I think she'd look good in it and for the fact that it'll cause Argon to act like a shy schoolboy… Or something like that).**

**Besides that, I just noticed that the ampersand I place between the 'read and review' message hasn't shown for the past five chapters. 0o0**

**I'm so sorry about that (the ampersand is that fancy 'and' symbol, in case you were wondering)**

**Please do R and R (that doesn't look right but it'll have to do), I'd love to hear any opinions, ideas, and thoughts you may have about this story.**

**Thank you for reading! **


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello again all you vagabonds and outlanders, did you miss me?! You missed me, didn't you?(*sparkly eyes)**

**_-why the hell would they miss a pervert like you?_ **

**You again! Why are you still here? And I'm no pervert, you've got the wrong guy.**

**_-I'm here to ensure you don't make a fool of yourself - as well as me in the process - and I do have the right guy. It was you that wanted to dress our favourite cross breed in tight leather._ **

**I said BLACK leather and you know it! Don't make it look it worse than it sounds, and I said that because she'd look good in it(*mopes around the room)**

**_-you haven't even _created_ a virtual room to mope around _in._ And don't you mean I shouldn't make it sound worse than it looks? Now stop being dramatic, you're making me look bad to the reader's._ **

**Yeah? We'll you try taking mental abuse with a smile!**

**_-it isn't mental abuse if you're typing it out genius._ **

**Wait, really? It isn't?**

**_-(*sighs) just continue with the next chapter please._ **

**Gladly!**

**_-(like I suspected, he's like a bipolar child)_ **

**Did you say something?**

**_-you're just imagining things._ **

**Yeah, you're probably right… on with ze story!**

* * *

"Wait… I know you." Laurentius stammered out, pointing an accusing finger towards the seated woman in black. Priscilla turned to him in worry after hearing his uncharacteristic stutter while Argon folded his arms and leant against the pillar wearing a smirk behind his mask.

"Oh, this will be good." He said as the pyromancer began to speak again.

"S-Salaman spoke of you many times. He would describe a fair woman with a voice as calming as the evening s-sea's waves that wielded knowledge and skills strong enough to rival an Everlasting D-Dragon.

"I hadn't been privy to any other information about you besides your name but after just meeting you, for some reason, I feel an unfamiliar p-pull towards you - as if the flame I hold yearns to return to its source."

He continued to stutter and stammer before a soft laugh broke him from his ramblings. The swamp dweller lifted his gaze to her standing form only to turn a deep crimson when the lady in black pulled off her hood and allowed the rich silver locks of her hair to cascade down her shoulders and frame her heart-shaped face like a curtain of moonlight. Her deep black eye's crinkled as her gentle smile reached them and her skin seemed to glow in the dull swamp as if she were it's only source of warmth.

"So this is the young pyromancer you always talk about." She turned her smiling face to the masked undead who shrugged boredly. The young woman's smile only grew wider, making her already beautiful features become breath taking before looking back at a stunned Laurentius and bowing gracefully.

"I'm surprised Salaman would go so far as to mention his teacher, but I am glad nonetheless that his student's have such high regard for me." She raised her head as she spoke and took small but confident steps towards the pyromancer, bare feet the color of milk that shot out of her black robe with a steady pitter-patter. Laurentius' breath stopped in his throat as she stood a few inches away from his body, that gentle smile of hers growning as she showed him perfectly white teeth, her eyes closing pleasantly as she spoke.

"But yes, I am Quelana, daughter of the Witch of Izalith. It truly is a pleasure to meet you."

The best the bearded undead could do was wheeze out a reply. Quelana simply laughed again before stepping away and resting her dainty hands behind her back. For a moment Laurentius wondered if such beauty was just an illusion, but purged the idea from his mind hastily to silently admire the flawlessness of the lady before him. If he had any doubts about attraction at first sight, he immediately burned it to a cinder in his mind.

"Who is this?" Quelana asked innocently, staring at Priscilla with curious onyx orbs.

"Oh, forgive me, I am Priscilla. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"My, your voice is so soothing... and you have a tail! Are those scales on your neck real? That scythe of yours is _massive_. How do you manage to carry it around?"

"W-Well I…" the cross breed began but was at a loss for words. She was in no way socially introverted yet she felt so nervous around this mesmerising witch. Her personality was bubbly and her eye's spoke of unhidden curiosity that looked as if it spanned for decades. What stunned her more was how eager this woman seemed to be to converse with them in her gentle manner, it was almost like a motherly kindness that she just couldn't refuse yet at the same time felt nervous to comply to.

"I think that's enough questions for now, Quelana." Argon spoke finally, amusement in his voice as he broke the spell that the Izalith daughter had placed on his two companion's. "I think we can all share bedtime stories a bit later."

"Yes, you are right." She replied, turning to walk back to her spot from before and sitting down with her legs tucked comfortably under herself.

"What is it that you have come back here for?"

Argon pushed himself off the ivory pillar and placed his hands on his hips as he spoke.

"I'm going to fulfil that request you asked of me not long ago."

Immediately, as if a ship's anchor had been dropped, Quelana's smile slipped into a wide-eyed gasp, her pale hands covering her small red lips.

"Well actually I was lying, _he's_ going to be the one to fulfil your request." He pointed a thumb at a dumbstruck Laurentius and the witch turned her now teary eyes to look at him hopefully, the sight melting the pyromancer's heart and causing another shade of red to fill his cheeks.

"Do you truly mean it?" She asked him, her voice breaking as she spoke.

"I-I…"

"Of course he does," Argon slapped the pyromancer on the back playfully to bring him out of his stupor and rested his elbow on his shoulder, "and you're going to be helping him, 'Lana."

The witch gasped and took a few trembling steps back, a hand to her heart as she gave him a look of fear and horror.

"B-But I can't… I m-made a vow that I would n-never-"

"Yes, I know, you can't enter Izalith again for obvious reason's." Argon cut her off and gave his undead friend a push. Laurentius was too dazed to react properly and gain his footing back as he tumbled forward towards Quelana. His hands reached out to stop his momentum when they finally slammed into the side of the ivory pillar, unfortunately trapping a shocked Izalith daughter between them. Laurentius gasped and froze as he stood there, hands on either side of the fair woman's head, pinning her to the wall with their faces no more than a few centimeters away. He began to feel dizzy when her warm breath brushed against his face and her sweet smell of pine filled his nostrils. The both of them gulped in unison at the compromising position as they shared a blush that lit their faces red like the pyromancy gloves they wore.

"You'll be teaching Laurentius here the spells you taught your former student so that he can be strong enough to face your grotesque mother."

Priscilla looked at Argon as he puffed out his chest with pride, obviously smirking behind his mask that he had managed to make two pyromancer's light up like twin fireballs. She sighed out with a small smile gracing her lips. He could be so devious at times.

"Well, we're off. Train him well 'Lana!"

Both pyromancer's immediately untangled themselves to turn and glanced at him in bewilderment as he motioned for Priscilla to follow him, casing a spell with his catalyst before his body disappeared from sight. The cross breed in turn gave them a shy smile and a wave of goodbye before she swept her hand around her. Icy wind swirled around her like twinkling stars before she too blended into the background and disappeared from sight, leaving two blushing, embarrassed and awkward pyromancer's together to their own devices.

"So…" Quelana turned her gaze to Laurentius, onyx eyes peering into his chocolate ones intently as he addressed her.

"I've heard Argon say that you're proficient in weaving firestorms and rapport spells…"

* * *

"Do you think it was wise to leave them together, as flustered as they are now?" A worried cross breed questioned as she accepted Argon's hand, her slightly taller body hoisted up effortlessly by the masked undead's strength.

While it was true that the scenario they found themselves in was quite humorous and cute in Priscilla's option, she had to wonder if they would really be able connect on a basic level properly. Quelana was to teach their pyromancer the spells strong enough to help slay her mother after all, who wouldn't find it difficult to communicate well under those conditions?

"I wouldn't worry, with the comprising first encounter they just had I'm sure they'll get along _just_ fine."

He chuckled at his own words and turned around, beckoning her to follow and she complied. Argon had been many things from the start of their journey together as a trio of misfit's. Ranging from a fierce ally in combat to jovial undead without a care in the world. She envied how he could keep a straight face and a calm demeanor even though he had just been told that he was going to be the one to give his life to relink the Flame and succeed the Sunbringer of Lordran.

His attitude hadn't changed at all, and not a worry or hint of doubt had shown on his pale cheeks and sunken eyes in the rare moments he would remove that infamous mask of his. It was almost as if he knew his destiny all along and Frampt had been the one to clarify it.

She smiled gently at his back while they walked through the entrance to Izalith; small, medium and large web-layered eggs linning the circular tunnel like palor warts not ready to burst yet. The masked undead knew how heavy the task was that he'd bestowed to Laurentius, not only for the reason that the pyromancer would have to kill the mother of the art he had grown up learning but also for the personal conflict he would undoubtedly feel as he faced his own reason for coming to Lordran. It was no secret to the two of them that the swamp dweller sought to find Izalith and rebuild the smouldering embers that remained. He had spoken about it more than once during their conversations and the overflow of determination set into his eye's was an unsmotherable flame.

Argon had known he would lose some of the determination after wandering Lordran for so long, witnessing death and decay and desolation only to come face to face with his ancient ancestor's master. That had been why he had antagonised the two of them before finally arriving at Blighttown: to break the tension that had set into all of their shoulders with a third party and subtle string-pulling. He may seem like a handful on the outside but he cared deeply for his friends and hated to see them in anguish, she knew it from the casual way he approached certain matters and it made her heart flutter. It was times like these that she remembered why she was so drawn to him, and why when he did something, it filled everyone around him with a deep desire to stand by him - as if his mere presence was infectiously gorgonizing.

They passed a pair of humanoid creature's lying face down on the warm earth, the same sickly white eggs resting on their backs like a dogpile of boulders. The creatures looked like old men, bald and palour, hands together in prayer as they muttered with deep groaning voices. Argon didn't say anything, opting to skirt around them politely and continue walking until they reached the end of the tunnel that opened outwardly into an expansive room with more webbed eggs and brown stone floors.

The air shifted to something substantially warmer and Priscilla caught the scent of smoke and sulphur. A few beads of sweat formed on her brow and she huffed in annoyance, blowing icy air into her own face to try and balance her temperature. First, it was the clammy wetness of that bog that had gotten between her toes and squelched every time she took a step, and now the humidity threatened to melt her with arid dryness.

"Yep, this is definitely Izalith alright." Argon stated energetically. Her slitted-eyes slid to his position on her right and she deadpanned. There wasn't a trickle of perspiration on his skin at all.

Just how exactly was he able to divert the season's effects so easily as if he were the wind itself? It frustrated her to no end and a small scowl adorned her mouth as her emerald eyes roamed his bare arms - and what attractively toned arms they were - for any trace of hidden sweat he could be hiding under that brigand armour but found none. With a dejected sigh, she slumped forward, leaning on her scythe as she did so as he began to walk forward with his gloved hand pointing to a distant set of spiraling rock stairs that shone bronze in the large large area.

"What's the matter?" He asked her with his head titled to the side curiously. How convenient, even his stamina hadn't lessened after the muddy trekking they had just endured.

"It's nothing," Priscilla replied, catching up with him and keeping the pace with a sigh. They reached the stairway and she groaned, a hand to her face. "Why are there so many flights of stairs in the lower levels of Lordran?"

"Lordran was famed for the land of the god's, not their innovation in daily living." Argon supplied as they _finally_ reached the roofed structure that availed what little coolness it could.

"Besides, think of it as the best way to exercise your body! Not that you really need it though…" the last part went unheard to the goddess as the masked man cleared his throat loudly, the sound echoing within the empty space.

"Exercise? Well I suppose it would do me more good than harm then…"

More eggs rested against the corners and walls like decorations and towards the exit of the structure they saw a ring-shaped hole also spotted with a number of the orbed eggs. If the hole was meant to be a work of the buildings architecture it failed miserably and instead served as a potential deathtrap if the long fall down was anything to go by. In front of the big hole, set into the curved stone window like Excalibur, was a man-sized, bronze lever; and above it, a church bell.

Priscilla's eye's widened, she had seen the first one from a distance while in the Undead Parish, her keen eyesight picking the metallic object out like a blip in the sky; however to see the sister figure this close, was oddly mesmerising. The bell wasn't anything lavish, an old hollow dome as tall as a wall suspended by heavy chains. What caught her attention was the fact that something so innocently plain and old was the pivotal factor in starting so much havoc and death for all the undead that had come and fallen just to try and sway this old piece of metal protected by labyrinths and creatures of nightmares.

She turned her eyes to her companion that had followed her gaze towards the dusty bell before grunting indifferently and turning around, legs leading him to another flight of stairs to the lower level of the room they were currently standing in. Many undead may have come and failed to reach the damnable object that was more demonic than angelic for a church bell, but it didn't phase him in the slightest. He didn't admire the method the god's had concocted to find the Chosen Undead, yes, but it wasn't the time for his opinion. Whether he objected openly to it or not didn't make a difference, the god's where all either dead or gone from the kingdom they had turned into their own undoing. And it wasn't like the fresh air would direct his voiced thoughts to the surviving god's out there if he tried, right? He thought about that for a second.

What if he _did_ try it? I couldn't hurt… maybe the wind would _magically _whisk his thoughts to some stray god to annoy? Everything in Lordran was enchanted from the various areas he entered to the damn trees in the forest, maybe shouting his frustrations _would_ help.

He opened his mouth a fraction and prepared to utter a few choice words any god would turn red from hearing before stopping suddenly and morphing his mouth into a smile.

_No, don't be silly… the hot air is probably filling my thoughts with nonsense._

They descended into a circular room with faceted walls and a disk-shaped dais in the center. On the opposite end of the room was a pitch black tunnel, undoubtedly the final passageway to Izalith. They both peered into the gloomy hole for a moment, inky blackness obscuring all thought and increasing any apprehension they might have had. Argon turned his eyes away from the path for the moment to walk around the dias set into the center of the room. It held a smaller, stone carved disk set into it with cut out slits colored a fiery red.

_Chaos fire… looks like some contraption._

"We'll this is homely." He spoke loudly, placing his hands on his hips like some brave hero from a children's fairy tale. Priscilla couldn't stifle the giggle that escaped her lips at the sight.

"And just look at the décor. I love what those Lizardmen and bugs have done with the place…" he said pointing to the rubble and cobwebs dotted around the room like sun spots on an old mans wrinkled face. He toed the disk set into the dias for a few moments as his companion studied the walls, taking in the pure age it possessed, and when nothing in particular happened he walked off it to inspect his belongings.

The slow journey toward Izalith's entrance hadn't come without a cost, he noted, as he briefly held up his quarter-finished flask of Estus. That ring he had found back in the Asylum had been a blessing in more ways than one during the day's he had to fight, walk and survive through thick mud and high water. Yet, even though it's use had only granted him greater motion on difficult terrain, it had done nothing to protect his body from the conditions of the places he travelled to. He pulled a fist full of flowered-moss from one of the pouches on his person and sighed at how much he had used up. He would need to buy more from that woman in the sewers soon, and no doubt she'd drain him for all the soul's he possessed - damn her for being the only person in the only safe part of Lordran that sold quality life-savers. He swivelled his head around to the goddess as she walked from one facet to the other, carefully observing the cracks in the wall with those soul-searing eye's of hers. Although their journey down here had been rough on him, it had been less than a literal walk in the park for Priscilla and Laurentius.

The swamp dweller knew his way through bogs like this one - even if he did complain about it a lot - and he had built up a strong resistance for the likes of poisons and toxic fumes. As for the cross breed, she was basically immune to any status effect - her divinity cutting through them like a spear of light in a dark room - and even though the muck had seeped between her cute toes - that's right, he would admit she had nice feet - and stained her gown considerably, she had had the mind to put her magic to better use than him by simply freezing the ground beneath her. Effectively walking on top of the knee-high waste with quick skips of ice to freeze the area of impact. He had attempted to trick her into dropping into the mud like himself and his bearded friend; stating that it felt more like a quest to suffer through annoying trials, but she would have none of it. Instead, she replied with a glare and a deeper inhale of breath that caused him to lurch back a few paces. He knew he was pushing his luck, of course, but what was the fun in not taking any risks?

It still surprised the undead whenever he looked at his taller companion. Taller for the _moment_, he corrected, and watched as her eyebrows came together as she pondered about something. She had come a long way from that area boss he had stumbled across half-dead without any strength to keep his shoulders square. He had done his best to get her accustomed to the modern era he lived in, and had succeeded in curbing that annoying old-speak she was so fond of conversing in, showing her the evolved methods of humankind, and even one of the greatest inventions of the current world: the lavatory.

He snickered at how much of a challenge it had been to show her how to properly utilize the innocent mechanism of iron bolts and smoothed wood; especially with how red she had turned when he announced what it's purpose was for. It had been over a few centuries after all and the routines of humans had adapted and revolutionized excessively since the arrival of great inventors and smiths from the West. It was only good courtesy to help build and display it's use to her after all since she was the only one that ate and drank. Cursed as he was, Argon found that since becoming undead he didn't require a need for sustenance like he used to. It didn't stop him from _attempting _to eat or drink, however, he had seen Laurentius with that gourd of his many times, gulping water and picking fruit from the trees they passed by. Personally the masked undead just didn't both since a simple nip of Estus blurred the craving and flavour of any form of edible item he placed onto his tongue, although secretly he knew he didn't eat because all that food just ended up resurfacing hours later when his body violently rejected the meals he ate for some odd reason. He didn't have a need for the modern toilet system either, placating his worried friend every time she asked if he required its use. He had only built it for her really.

He was undead. Undead didn't poop. Or at least he and the pyromancer didn't anyway.

His thoughts left him when his fingers brushed against something soft and fluffy to the touch, and he reached deeper into his pouch to grab it and hoist it out. An innocent Firekeeper soul lay in his hand as he started at it quietly. They had found this one in a chest near the primitive lift in Blighttown. None of them knew who it belonged to and the lizards guarding it didn't speak the common tongue - if they possessed any intelligence to say anything besides '_hiss'_ \- so Argon had ended up taking it with him. It was still a soul that once had a home, he couldn't let it rot in a box forever.

Yet as he focussed on the soul in his hand, listening to the cries of countless voices merged together in a symphony of tortured voices he couldn't identity its source or even fathom it's age. He knew that many lost souls possessed original homes that had either perished or been removed but it was only these Firekeeper soul's that left him feeling down and sympathetic. He couldn't find who they belonged to, the screams they contained were just too loud, too abrasive for him to pin point.

It was untethered now, belonging to no one and everyone at the same time. A piece of sharable fruit for all to benefit from, if he were to use an example.

He was saddened by it, yet also glad. It would still be able to be passed on to a new wielder, a new vessel could acquire it. The overabundance of humanity it would grant them would be enough the stave off the effects of the curse to such a degree whereby they would almost be human. And when the day came for that vessel to depart, it would equally _impart_ that very same soul onto another to carry the torch, to share the blessing that ancient Keeper was once born with in her bosom.

With a rueful smile, Argon crushed the soul in his hand, eye's shining behind his mask as the light swirls of white prettily spun around him, seeping into his arms, legs, chest; imparting the blessing of a long lost Keeper inside of him to continue to share the inferno of humanity it possessed. He thought about the entities that were Firekeeper's and hummed to himself.

_Why were all the Keeper's female anyway? Did the god's also have a massive gender inequality along with their disgust for humans and our uncontrollable inquisitiveness? Damn hypocrate's… _

"Argon," he heard Priscilla's voice call out, "come take a look at this part of the wall."

He spun on his heel and made his way to her side, eye's catching the way her tattered gown rode up her slender calves slightly as she bent over to closely inspect the wall she had called him to. He would need to give her a set of his own clothing once she came down to human height, maybe the old Dragon School leather would be a match for her white hair?

"Ah, yes. What a lovely color indeed." He teased and she pouted at him. "It's decently cracked, however, and the facet seems to be deeper than the others." She nodded firmly and tapped a claw against her scythe in thought. The sound bouncing off the empty room.

"Yes, it does hold more physical detail than the others but that's not what I wanted you to see."

"Did you perhaps want to break it down and use it to sharpen everyone's blades?"

"No."

"Good, because we've got repair powder for days… unless you mean to tell me that you broke the repair box and ate all the powder?"

"No!" She fumed, he always acted like this when it was important.

"Good, because you know how much those little things cost, right? I spent an arm and a leg to buy just one for my armour - seriously - I actually lost an arm and a leg before dying and retrieving my lost souls that day…" he said finally before they stood staring at the wall in silence. After what seemed like only a few seconds he tilted his head to her.

"...Unless you're thinking of using that wall to take an arm and a leg fro-"

"Argon!" She giggled softly.

"You're not?" He asked in a happy voice and she shook her head with a small smile. He was infuriating sometimes but it was only so there wouldn't be any uneeded pressure. For that she was glad.

"Okay, okay. What is it that you see Priscilla?" He asked turning back to the wall, all seriousness back on track.

"While the wall in front if us does appear to be ordinarily plain like the room we are in," she said and prodded the ground with the staff of her scythe.

"It doesn't feel like there's a _physical_ wall here."

Argon glanced at her for a moment and held a hand to his mask. She watched as his hands dexterously undid the clasps before he removed it, amber eye's blinking at her. Rich pools absorbed her attention before he turned to look at the wall closely. She wouldn't admit in front of Laurentius but it was a known fact to her that Argon only ever removed his mask causally in her presence alone. She saw his face crinkle in thought as he leaned in closer to the wall and she silently prayed that the pyromancer wouldn't become upset if he one day found out about it. She knew full well how brotherly the two men acted with each other. She would hate to see such a bond break due to trust issue's and the like.

"Hey, I think you're right." Argon said and replaced the mask before pushing out a hand against the 'wall'. Their bodies tensed when his hand phased through it and the facet opened up into a deep hallway bathed in a warm orange.

A scimitar appeared in his right hand and he took cautious steps forward with Priscilla at his side, the light splashing onto his brigand armour and curved-sword like morning rays of sunlight. It wasn't long until they came upto a prone humanoid figure with webbed eggs on his back blocking the way into the brightly lit room. He looked like the same creatures praying outside of Quelaag's domain - a person Argon hadn't told anyone about save for the phantom woman that had assisted him in slaying the guardian of the second bell.

"Ah, two new ones," the creature said in an old voice, old but warm. Like the room they stood in.

"Are you here to join the Fair Lady?" He asked them, head and hairless eyebrows raised.

Priscilla had no knowledge that there was anyone actually residing here, let alone royalty – or so she assumed. She gazed back at him in mild confusion. His eye's hardened quickly, however, when she didn't answer, gaze darting to her scythe before opening his mouth to shout that there were intruder's in his midst before she heard her masked companion chuckle loudly. The creature closed his mouth and looked at him in question.

"Of course we're here for the Fair Lady. Why else would we be here of not to serve, eh?"

Priscilla sighed internally. She was again glad that Argon was able to think quickly on his feet. That could have ended badly, she noted, as the creature's left hand pocketed the pyromancy flame he had taken out from somewhere on his body.

"But you have no egg's?" Both of them froze, not expecting the trap they had fallen into. The creature looked at them closely for a moment longer before scoffing.

"Bah, what does it matter. Please come in, but mind your manners. The Fair Lady is not well." He said dismissively and turned slowly, struggling under the heavy eggs pinning him to the floor before he finally gained a grip on the dusty ground and crawled to the side for them to enter.

Argon hadn't had the chance to notice before but behind that humanoid creature sat a slowly burning bonfire. He sighed in appreciation, at least now he could reforge his armaments and fill his Estus flask to the brim. This was also a saving grace for their long journey back to the surface. All he would need to do now is warp him and Priscilla out when Laurentius was ready to say goodbye. He hadn't even known there _was_ a bonfire on this side of Blighttown. Laurentius would be so mad when he saw this.

* * *

Back at the ivory pillar of Blighttown, where the enormous lizardmen stood like sentient pieces of ugly art and the floor bled dull hues of brown, yellow and rust, a loud sneeze rang out, causing the boulder-carrying lizards to turn their heads toward the sound before dumbly staring back at nothing in particular. They were too busy hefting boulders to care about someone's sneezing anyways.

"My, that was quite loud. Are you alright?"

Laurentius sniffed and patted a stray flame from his robes with a dreary blink. That was an unusual thing to happen. He was undead, they didn't get sick… did they?

_Am I catching a cold?_

"Laurentius?" Quelana placed a gentle hand on his arm, which he caught unconsciously, causing her milk complexion to burst into red again.

"Yes- yes." He cleared his throat. "Just fine, my lady. It's probably the air her- Oh!"

His eye's widened when he noticed just how close he had accidentally pulled her and the gloved hand of his that had latched onto hers as if for life-support. His cheeks dusted red whilst Quelana's face exploded into a red tomato, her face gently resting against his chest due to their close proximity.

Hesitantly, he let her go and took a small step back, small enough to remain in her personal bubble. Was that sandalwood he smelt in her hair?

"We… we should continue with the Undead Rapport you were talking about."

"Y-Yes… as I was saying…" she looked up slowly, onyx eye's captured in his chocolate orbs and she stopped her words. She felt an odd desire to draw closer to him and time seemed to slow as her arms placed themselves on his broad shoulders almost automatically as he brought his face closer to hers. She smelt the mint on his breath and her eyes fluttered to a close as her soft lips met his in a chaste kiss. Her heart sped up drastically and for a moment Quelana imagined she was floating. They broke the lip-lock reluctantly to gaze at each other's eyes once again, attention only locked onto the another.

"Perhaps we should… halt the lesson." She said breathlessly. "U-Until we can fully focus on pyromancy that is…"

"I'd like that." Laurentius replied and gently pulled her lips back against his as a different spark flickered between them.

Just this once, the pyromancer was glad his masked friend had made the situation awkward for him and the new face he came into contact with.

* * *

"Come now, don't dally." The creature - who they now knew as Eingy - scolded, casting a frown at the pair. "Come and establish your covenant with the Fair Lady."

Priscilla nodded and turned to the figure against the opposite side of the wall he was talking about. She was about to call out for Argon to follow when she heard him audibly gasp in shock and her eye's swivelled round to stare at his prone body stuck like a prettified statue.

"Argon?" She called out but he didn't answer. Her worry escalated when she noticed his body begin to quiver.

"Argon!"

But the undead didn't hear a word she said. His eye's were too focused on the figure before him lying there weakly, sickly, with her clawed hands held together in quiet prayer.

"W-Wait… it-its you," Argon said, barely audible for Priscilla to hear.

"But how? It c-can't be…"

* * *

_Argon hastily rubbed the wall of blood from the side of his cut face with heavy limbs that smelt of sulphur and burnt fabric. The floor around him was encased in thick motlen lava that seared the dry air and lazily grew in a wobbly rhombus-shaped mat of red and bright orange._

_The breath he took in scorched his lungs and suffocated his brain as his phantom accomplice supported him from falling over into the liquid fire, his charred guantlet draped over smooth, toned shoulder's. The tribal woman with a sack hat and meat cleaver the size of a human being had been a great help to him during the course of their battle against the Izalith duaghter. He was skeptical when she had offered to help him after nearly killing him moments before his big battle but was grateful for all the help he could get. Solaire wasn't anywhere around so he couldn't be choosy._

_Even though the silent woman had shown an extraordinary resistance to fire - an understatement on his part after he had seen her walk through molten lava clad in nothing more than chest bindings and a loincloth - and had carved out more than her fair share of damage to their trying enemy, he could clearly see she had reached her limit. Staying in a phantom effigy and taking as much damage as she had was taxing on her body, at this rate her soul would be ruptured if she remained by his side._

_He turned his unmasked face to their foe; half woman, half spider and grimaced as she woke up from the concussion he had just delivered to her not many moments ago. Quelaag's stamina almost seemed unending were it not for the short pant's escaping from her lips accompanied by the dribbles of blood running down from her arachnid steed. She was badly wounded, he had seen to that personally by enchanting his blade with gold pine resin, yet she still had some fight in her. If this continued for just two more rounds, he knew he wouldn't last much longer. She caught his glance and sneered, the four-inch claws on her fingers scraping against the ground with a shrill shriek as her spider half rose and gurgled more lava between it's mandibles. Quelaag's back straightened as she picked up her grotesque sword and panted again, uncovered breasts heaving with her. She began advancing towards them with slow, menacing steps._

_Argon breathed in deeply himself and left the embrace of his tribal companion. She tilted her bag-covered head his way as he gulped down the last drops of his Estus and raised a tired shield arm._

_"Here she comes." He breathed and the woman turned forward immediately, grasping her meat cleaver with two hands as she sprinted forward. Argon's amber orbs observed the way the lava hissed when her feet splashed into it with each step but didn't burn her. _

_Show off._

_Quelaag's saw the scantly-dressed woman charge and drew back her sword, swiping downwards angrily with a rush of chaos energy that caused the air to crackle as it collided with the woman's great blade. She skidded backwards and dived to the side as the spider half attempted to bite a chunck out of her._

_While the Izalith half-breed was distracted Argon knocked back a feather arrow and released, the steel head whistling loudly before puncturing one of the spider legs. Quelaag roared in pain, her bloodshot eye's snapping his way as his phantom aide leaped into the air and slammed her blade into the side of the woman's spider half. _

_Dark blood exploded from the point of impact, pooling around the Izalith daughter's waist as the arachnid screeched, obviously badly hurt. Argon sprinted forward when he felt he had enough energy, battle axe raised above his head as he leapt over the lava blocking him from Quelaag. She reacted at the last moment, however, and swatted the phantom deprieved across the room with her left hand whilst she raised her right and caught Argon's axe in mid air, black claws digging into the glinting metal as his body dangled above her uselessly._

_She gave him a distasteful look and flung him down. The undead's body impacted painfully with the cracked stone and couldn't even breathe out in time before she sent a spidery leg to kick him forward, body lurching backwards and rolling a few yards away from her stationary form. He tried to get up but sharp spears of white agony filled him and he collapsed instantly, muscles tensing up as the pain rippled outwards. That kick had broken his ribs._

_This wasn't going too well._

_He managed a glance at his tribal companion. Her phantom body began to dissipate in dots of white, meat cleaver still jammed between tendons and muscle of Quelaag's spider half. He sighed through clattering teeth. He was alone again, not that it mattered much, the deprived had done her job, it was up to him to finish this battle now._

_Argon grit his teeth as he rose on shaky knees, sharp canines protruding with slivers of blood that ran freely from his mouth. It was the final wave now. He knew it, she knew it, they were just waiting for the other to make the first move. He eyed the cleaver trapped in her flesh and frowned in determination as the lava in front of them died out like a fading piece of charcoal. If he could make it to that blade in time, he would be able to score the winning blow. He just hoped he was fast enough in his battered state._

_As if some invisible proctor had raised an unseen flag, both parties darted forward; Argon pulled a short sword from his inventory whilst Quelaag reared her arm back, intent on scewering the human before her with a quick thrust. Her spider-half galloped forward in a blind rage, spider maw foaming at the mouth as it tried to snap at Argon's legs. The undead skidded to the side and plunged his sword into one of the creature's eyes and it gave a deafening wail._

_Quelaag growled and thrust her chaos blade forward, clipping Argon's shoulder as he used the momentum to slide under the spider body and weave around her tall legs. The Izalith daughter screamed in fury as she tried to steer her lower half but failed due to the intense pain the arachnid felt, disorientating its way of direction. The undead used the short delay to his advantage and gripped the mighty cleaver with two hands, stepping on the abdomen of the beast and violently tugging backwards. The new sensation of pain alerted Quelaag and she turned his way, swiping wildly with her claws to get him off of her but cried out as the blade jerked back suddenly, tearing through bone and flesh as it was wrenched from her body. Fresh spouts of blood fell like a red river down her side as the spider half finally gave up it's struggle, collapsing on itself but not before the black-haired cross breed was able to slam a fist into Argon's face._

_Her slender arm connected with a solid punch that sent him sprawling on his back a few feet from her and all the air left his lungs as the meat cleaver fell flat against his chest, sending daggers of pain into his already broken body. _

_The two stayed where they were for a full minute; they were both bleeding heavily and Argon almost cried out when he saw the spider-half open it's remaining five eyes and shakily rise to it's feet._

_"You're still alive," he wheezed out and backed away as quickly as he could, a hand cradling his wounded abdomen. The arachnid limped toward him, Quelaag too tired to even raise her sword. She was going to allow her other half devour him, it was her only chance at victory._

_"I won't allow you to harm my sister." Quelaag seethed with what little energy she had and he raised a bloodied eyebrow. Just what the hell was she on about now? And why didn't she say she could talk? That and more unnecessary questions blurred through his mind as the spider-half weakly approached him, hairy legs quivering as more life essence poured from its side._

_The beast was at his feet, maw opened and ready munch him in half with those terrifying mandibles it possessed. In a last ditch effort, Argon, lifted a rusty throwing knife from a pocket on his hip and threw it with the last shot of adrenaline in his system. They both watched the knife sail through the air in slow motion before it impacted with a dull thud in the arachnids forehead. The creature screamed so loud blood began to drip from the undead's ears and it fell forward, Quelaag fell with the beast and gasped as the connection between her body and the spider-half was severed, sending her legless body flying into Argon with a crash._

_He shouted in pain again as the weight of her body broke more of his ribcage and a spurt of blood erupted from from his chapped lips, splashing onto the Izalith daughter's cheek. More blood drenched his legs as Quelaag's severed body poured red over him, coloring his trousers scarlet. He knew that wasn't going to wash off after this. Her body writhed in agony and he was surprised when she was able to raise her chest and shoulders to glare at him, clawed-hands pressing down on his chest._

_Argon hissed in pain as she she continued to lift herself up. Between her half a body and the meat cleaver, he preferred the meat cleaver. It was obvious she was heavier and it was making his broken ribs puncture his organs._

_"I… won't let you harm… m-my sister…"_

_This again, he thought and groaned, placing a hand on the back of her head and pulling her down against his collarbone._

_"Shut up already."_

_She stopped her movements for a moment, as if shocked that he replied, before struggling again. Argon coughed wetly and wrapped his other arm over her back, tightening his hold. She tried to claw at him but her arms just flailed around like a snake's body severed from it's head._

_"Stop. That."_

_She stilled at the sound of his voice but didn't relax, opting to say something that was muted by how firmly her face was planted against his chest._

_Argon raised an eyebrow._

_"What?" He eased the pressure on her head and she breathed in a little deeper. He hadn't realized he had been suffocating her._

_"I w-won't allow you near my… sister." She said again and glared her firery-red eye's at him. He could tell by the tears falling down her cheeks and the parlour in her fair skin that she knew she didn't have long. He grunted in reply and forced her cheek to rest against his body._

_"I don't even know who your sister is."_

_He heard her mutter something that sounded like a curse._

_"Why didn't you say anything when I entered before? You speak the common tongue, we could have talked this out. We didn't have to fight."_

_"What difference would it have made," she replied, scoffing softly, "your kind only comes here for the same reason, that damned bell."_

_Argon couldn't stop the chuckle that escaped his lips but groaned when it jarred the rib shard currently imbedded in his lung._

_"That's true… undead like me only live to die for something so nonsensical as commanded by those obnoxious god's." Quelaag harrumphed in agreement, and he smiled with broken teeth. At least they had _something _in common._

_"Still doesn't explain why I would be after your sister… I didn't even expect to find something like you living here, let alone a pair of you."_

_She didn't say anything and he was content to allow the silence to envelope them, arm still draped over her muscled back as she bled with him in stereo. It was peaceful down here despite the hell he had gone through to arrive at the white mound of tentacles they were currently dying inside. He would have liked to revel in it if he wasn't currently fighting to stay conscious._

_"So what happens now?" She asked, he could hear the scowl in her voice, as odd as that sounded._

_"We lie here. Like this. Until one of us finally bleeds out."_

_"You mean until I give my last breath and you collect my soul." She corrected and he had to chuckle again._

_"You're a sharp one." He said, a smile on his face. He would have preferred it better if she stayed alive, he liked her personality._

_"But while I will be reborn at the bonfire a full kilometer from here, there's no guarantee I'll remain the same me you fought not long ago."_

_This time Quelaag lifted her head to stare at him, her red eyes searching his amber ones for any signs of lies before she huffed and dropped her head gently against his chest again._

_"So even the undead suffer. How comforting to note. It must he nice not to fear death."_

_"I'd rather die here with you than endure it every day of my life."_

_The silence returned and Argon began to feel a slower trickle of blood on his legs. She was almost all out of life._

_"If it makes you feel any better, I could save your life… you'd only need to drink from my Estus flask and burn your inside's but I'm sure you're used to it already."_

_Quelaag laughed above him. It was a pretty laugh, not one he'd expect on her rough appearance. He liked it._

_"You would save the foe you already murdered?_

_"I enjoy the company." She let out another laugh through quick breaths. "Besides, if I do, you can be with your sister again."_

_she shook her head on his chest and perched her chin to stare at him, a small tear falling from her wet face as she felt her life fade from her severed body._

_"My time is up. My sister will follow shortly after." She smiled softly and placed a clawed finger against Argon's lips when he opened his mouth to protest._

_"She is deathly ill and only survived this long with my aide. The eggs around us are the humanity I have scavenged to keep her breathing. She has suffered enough now, as have I…"_

_Her face contoured into complete suprise when she saw a solitary tear slide out from his amber eyes before she smiled that pretty smile of her's again and placed a soft kiss on his bloodied lips._

_"What is your name human? I would like to know the man that slew me with compassion in his heart."_

_"A-Argon…" he choked out through blurry eyes as Quelaag began to glow, her body breaking apart from her soul._

_"Argon," she tested the word on her tongue and smiled at him again, bringing her dissipating hand up to stroke his face affectionately._

_"Best this accursed land and find freedom…" He could do nothing but sob silently as her body eventually burst into particles of gold and white that swirled around him, releasing the now comforting warm weight on his body only to leave behind the coldness of loneliness. A small orb of crackling soul essence rested on top of his broken chest gently, a comforting warmth flowing out from it to encase his tired body in the life he had just allowed to die in his arms. Another tear slid down his face as he cradled the soul between his bloody fingers, his darksign activating and beginning to turn his body into white specks of light._

_"Quelaag…"_

* * *

**I wanted to continue with this chapter until it reached 12k in word count but because of all the new ideas tearing away at my mind for dominance after writing out the battle for the second bell, I had to stop. My apologies if I stopped the tempo prematurely.**

**Again, I'm completely speechless that this story is gaining so much popularity in the space of a single month and a quarter. People are more attracted to this fic than my Naruto one-shots - although I suppose it's because the NaruHina hype has died down considerably over the last few years.**

**Thank you for reading, if there were any mistakes in grammar, sentence structure, etc.; I am sorry again, sometimes I miss a word(many words) or two when I proof-read my work. **

**Please do R R (perhaps placing a space between them will help include my lovely ampersand), I'd love to read your thoughts and any possible idea's you've thought about in terms of the outcomes and eventualities of the various characters/events/plots/etc.**

**Have a wonderful morning/afternoon/evening/dusk/dawn/breakfast/lunch/supper.**

**Stay progressive!**


	8. Chapter 8

**How many of you have watched the first episode of that new anime: Interspecies Reviewers?**

**_-nobody reading this Fanfiction is a pervert like you._ **

**I told you already, I'm not a pervert. **

**_-then why are you asking the audience whether they've watched an anime solely devoted to-_ **

**ZIP IT! Do you _really_ want to spoil it for them?**

**_-ah, yes… sorry about that._ **

**Mind your manners next time, you nearly made ME look bad this time.**

**_-firstly, we're the same person and secondly I've basically already spoilt it for them._ **

**You traitorous dog! How could you sully my name like that?!**

**_-since you're the one writing this out and the fact mentioned above that I am STILL you, you're just insulting yourself here._ **

**Ooh, my brain, you traitorous dog! How strongly you vex me…**

**_-hurry it up, people want to read the next chapter, not read about you doing a skit about yourself._ **

**Right! Sorry for the wait; Interspecies Reviewers is about milti-racial golf by the way (*nudge* do you think they bought it?)**

**_-of course they did (idiot)_ **

**Yay, on with the story!!**

**_-apologies for the wait, dear readers…_ **

* * *

"What _are_ you on about now?" Eingy asked, a tired sigh leaving his lips as he shook his head in disappointment.

_Young people these days are so loose with their emotions. _

"I won't assume to understand _why_ you stand there frozen amidst all this heat but what I _will_ say from this unsociable exchange is that you have the attention span of a teaspoon."

His insults seemed to snap Argon out of his quivering trance and he gazed at Eingy until the prone creature got frustrated and shouted at him.

"Well? What is it now? You came here to convene with the Fair Lady, not look at me like an old lover. Hurry it up!" The bald man muttered under his breath as he turned from the pair and crawled toward the entrance of the now uncovered tunnel, probably to recast the illusion of the wall they had passed through.

"Are you unwell?" Priscilla asked him, her eyes motioned back and forth between him and this 'Fair Lady' against the opposite wall that looked as if she hadn't noticed them yet. It was clear that she was another daughter of Izalith; with pale skin that shimmered like silver scales and stark white hair that reminded the cross breed of freshly fallen snow. Another obvious fact that tied her to the demon-infested kingdom of hellfire were the ivory claws on her fingers the length of throwing knives, as well as the half-dead arachnid her lower half seemed to be planted inside of.

The creature below her - or what looked like part of her - matched her in complexion; its maw hanging limp on the dusty floor, legs stretched out to their maximum as if an invisible foot had stomped on it. The spider-half was propped up by a mass of those webbed-eggs and it's breathing was laboured. The woman in question - to Priscilla's shock - was nude from the neck down and two thick locks of her cascading white hair fell over her small chest, effectively preventing anyone from seeing her nipples. Her dainty hands were clasped in prayer and her eye's were closed.

"So she actually survived." Argon muttered as he and his taller friend moved closer towards the seemingly frail woman. The woman would have raised her head to look at them, if she had any eyes that was.

Her eyelids were sunken and outlined the bone surrounding the eye socket; as for her hearing, it seemed the Izalith refugee was currently focussed on praying - as for whom she made the prayer to, however, was a mistery to Argon - as her mouth moved but no audible sound escaped.

"Who is she?" Priscilla asked quietly, a sympathetic look on her face as she stared at the hunched woman. It was clear that she had suffered much to reach the exit of her home; the burn marks on her arms and on her spider-half were proof of that. She was also very beautiful, her face was round and a small nose curved gently against the contour's of her face. Her cheeks that would have been slightly plump where instead hollowed out due to what looked like intense malnutrition, although that along with the worry lines etched into her forehead did nothing to diminish her youthful attractiveness. A glance at Argon showed he had noticed it too and more astonishingly, he had removed his mask to gaze intently at the praying woman. She would have said she was mildly offended since he had only begun to remove that porcelain covering weeks after traveling together, but now wasn't the time for petty sulking, it was clear this woman was precious to the undead. How could she be angered if it was his heart opening up to people he would usually walk past without a care in the world?

"Quelaan, a survivor of Izalith. Her sister was the one in charge of defending the second Bell of Awakening." The cross breed flinched. It was saddening that one had to slay another just for the sake of a worthless hunk of metal, but it was painful to come into contact with the family of those you had slain and attempt to act as if you were adamant to their loss.

Argon cleared his throat to get her attention and the praying woman weakly raised her head in their direction, her small mouth opening slightly as she attempted to figure out who the voice belonged to.

"Attia?" Her voice sounded as frail as she appeared, and it almost seemed that the mere act of conversing caused her petite body pain.

"Who?" Argon replied, his eyebrow raised.

"She called out for 'Quelaag'. That must be the name of her sister."

"You understand what she's saying?"

"Attia, rendus veram catu…" Quelaan sighed out, a shaky smile adorning her lips.

"Barely, her voice is so pained that it is difficult to decipher a syllable from a moan."

"Well you're doing great so far," the undead said nodding to her with a smile, that caused a light shade of red to powder her cheeks. Praise from him was seldom given genuinely without an attempt to tease her in the process. She would be damned if she didn't relish in this rare reward, as childish as she felt.

"Keep listening while I find something." Priscilla nodded and he began to rummage around in the five pouches resting snugly on his belt. Since his arrival at Lordran, he had used the worn out utility-belt of sorts to prep himself for any immediate dangers along the way. At first, he had only needed to use two out of the five; one for his Estus flask and the other for the times he would consume humanity to kindle newly discovered bonfires to make their healing properties more potent. Now, however, all five were constantly fully filled with projectiles, path markers and the occasional lost soul to crush when he was feeling like he needed a pick me up. The only unfortunate part of the trusty pouches - or space pockets as he liked to call them - was the fact that they only stored a maximum of ninety-nine of one item. The belt was enchanted of course, using a similar spell that his bottomless box possessed but to a smaller degree, and it was unfortunate that he could only keep less than a hundred copies of his lovable black firebombs that would only take him the length of Sen's Fortress without having to overexert himself. He absently patted the space pocket containing said bombs and made a note to restock his supply of them, he had been whittled to a measly fifteen of them so he had to be cautious when deciding to use the powerful explosives.

"If I may ask," Priscilla began as she eyed his arm disappearing into a pocket that could only be big enough to fit his fist inside, "what is it that you are searching for?"

"A ring." He replied and frowned slightly as his fingers brushed against something before he pulled his arm out of the pouch to stare at a grey ring with a sleeping dragon carved into it. Argon shook his head and drove his arm back into the pouch.

"Nope, not you."

It was practical to use smaller storage pockets in battle as opposed to the bottomless box due to their efficiency and quick-draw capability. Many undead fashioned their use to store assortments of herbs, elixers and throwing knives for when they knew the would need to purge the body of toxins and other ailments accumulated by the many foes of Lordran that possessed diseases for days. In Argon's case, the use of a multitude of rings with magic imbued into the bands' were a must when in battle, whether it was a need for stealth, greater force in his sorceries or just a desire to be more agile in battle. Although many undead had warned him that wearing too many at one go may cause his body physical harm due to the influx of magic surging through his veins, he had done his best to conquer that drawback nonetheless. While most undead only wore one ring at a time for fear of bursting into a pile of fleshy remains in plate-mail, he had found wearing two at once did nothing more than cause a mild tingle to appear on his skin. When pushing himself to the max he could even attempt to wear a third ring, provided that it only improved his five senses and not his magical affinity.

The undead dung around more as they waited, and even Eingy had made his return, crawling as slow as he did until eventually he got tired of watching the pair stand idle and spoke.

"By the god's, what are the two of you still doing standing there?"

Priscilla gave him an apologetic look whilst Argon ignored him and mumbled quietly to himself, still searching for a ring that seemed to only exist in his mind rather than his inventory.

"Corie gar iesen… wyn fastral…"

Eingy turned to Quelaan and his eyes softened significantly. It seemed he held the suffering woman in higher standing than his own life, the eggs infecting his body proof of his devotion. The undead briefly looked up from his fumbling to stare at her before turning his amber eyes to the prone man and Priscilla. The cross breed shook her head gently as if reading his mind, her braids moving with her as she did so. If his companion couldn't decipher the frail woman's mutterings then it meant her body was failing her even as they stood there, he needed to hurry it up. He heard Eingy sigh mournfully and furrowed his eyebrows. He understood the man felt for Quelaan sure, but he couldn't even understand what she was saying. For all he knew she could have been telling him to take a walk off a short pier in New Londo with all that dramatic sighing of his.

"This ring of yours… will it help ease her suffering?" Priscilla asked, stroking the shaft of her scythe gently as she looked at him.

"Yes, but not in the way you're thinking," he replied and grumbled for a few moments before his face suddenly lit up and he yanked his forearm free from the open pouch.

"Ah-ha!"

The goddess stared at the dull red ring for a moment skeptically before looking at his enthusiastic face. She didn't doubt the power magic rings possessed, nor the weilder of the current one in front of her. She knew how well they had worked in the past, cloaking the dark haired undead from head to foot in refracted light and others that made him near impervious to heavy attacks. She just felt that Argon placed too much trust in these circles of metal as opposed to his own abilities. It was becoming a bad habit of his that she hoped wouldn't spiral out of control.

"This ring is made by Izalith forges, as such also enchanted by an Izalith daughter. I should be able to properly converse with her after putting it on."

"Bah!" Eingy shouted with a roll of his eyes, "you expect me to believe a mere trinket can grant you the ability to understand the lost language of Izalith? Preposterous."

"Well we won't know until we try." Argon replied, slipping off the rusted iron ring from his middle finger and pocketing it. He walked up to the praying woman and she raised her head to him, her ear's catching the tapping of his boots on the dusty ground.

"Varses egru eern, nemte dre-"

He slipped the ring on.

"-be fine Quelaag…"

Argon glanced at the cross breed and smiled widely. Her cheeks heated up slightly as she nodded quickly and faced Quelaan.

"Uh, sorry to confuse you but I'm Argon, not Quelaag."

The woman's eyebrows rose to reach her hairline and he sniffed the air lightly.

"O-Oh… my apologies. Forgive me, I don't have many guest's other than my sister." Her voice quivered as if she was on the cusp of tears and her shoulder's shivered in excitement. Whether it was excitement or fear she was displaying was unknown to him, but she composed herself well either way.

"It is strange. Normally my sister doesn't bring me many new faces to meet, not that I can see them, really." She chuckled weakly at her own joke and Argon let a wry smile cross his pale features. At least she still had a sense of humor despite her obvious impairment, it was heartwarming to see.

"But I don't sense her with you. Are you hear for something in particular?" She asked it so innocently as if he were just a travelling merchant and her sister a roudy farm girl. If only that were the truth, however.

This was the moment he had been dreading, antagonising over, and generally sickening himself to the point of silently insulting himself for his crimes - even if they were necessary to reach Anor Londo - of putting another innocent soul down for the purpose of a damn maniacal quest. This is why he hated the old god's. As passive as he may have been towards Gwyndolin - even after the femboy had blasted him with a soul spear - he still felt a deep resentment for their ways, their actions, their greed to stay the dominant species. Gwyndolin's ruse of Sunlight and his sister had been enough proof to explain how they all clung to what little authority they possessed in this dying land.

They despised humans with a passion but were loathe to admit they acted exactly the same as them when on the brink of extinction. The pride Gwyn displayed against all humankind as a subspecies, the arrogance of Izalith's Queen in thinking she could control all life, and the utter disgust the other god's had shown to Priscilla for not being 'pure' like the rest of them. It all sickened him.

What was the use in following this 'undead mission' if the only thing in store for what remained of the sane in this ugly world was the end of his blade? What use was fulfilling the god's obvious desperation to stay in power when people like Priscilla, Quelaag and her sister only suffered because of pathetic parental figures? If these god's had been so merciful why had Sif needed to die, or Artorias the need to go on a suicide mission to an obviously too far gone Oolacile? Had the god's so called 'wisdom' not foreseen that it was a useless errand?

No, of course it hadn't. Because they only sought that which benefited them. They believed that only the blessed should live in jubilation; they would exile any who stood against their loose morals. That was why Gwyn's firstborn had been struck from the annals of time, and why Velka was hated by her fellow god's. At least those two had the heart to stand against such corruption. What a shame it was that he hadn't been able to meet them sooner, he could have saved Quelaag if at least one of their miracles were passed down to him.

He took a deep breath and forced a smile on his face, he had to live through whatever hand life dealt to him, there was no use delaying the inevitable.

"Actually, there is." He began and glanced at his companion. Priscilla looked back with a determination etched across her face and smiled gently to him. Almost immediately his nerves began to quiet down. He was glad she was with him, her very presence seemed to drain the worry out if him.

"It's about your sister…"

The frail woman raised her head a fraction in understanding, that innocent look of curiosity still present.

"She, uh, well… she's recently departed from this place." Quelaan's unblemished eyebrows knitted themselves together as she tried to process the information. Argon for his part was finding it harder and harder to properly ease the news to the woman. What was more perplexing was how calm she seemed to be - almost as if she knew this day would come.

"I see," she sighed out and smiled gently, her small hands retracing from their position of prayer to rest comfortably against her bare chest. "I know what you're thinking. I should be saddened by this news, devastated that the person keeping me alive has abandoned me. But really, I expected this day after day; year after year. Quelaag needed to move on and forget about all ties to her horrible past, her dying sister included. I was baggage to my dear sister, after all, how could I have not felt the weight she bore just to live a happy life once again?"

The undead widened his eyes whilst Priscilla stifled the sobs racking her body at how painful it was to watch this play out. She knew it wasn't easy for Argon, being the murderer of the weak half-ling's sister yet at the same time she felt the burning agony Quelaan must be feeling, even though she hid it well. Anyone would be shattered at the revelation that their sibling had left them, the cross breed still felt bittersweet that Argon had to lie that the Izalith daughter had abandoned Quelaan. She deserved to know the full truth but would she even be able handle it with all she had been through _and_ this desease that was slowly eating her life away?

From the entrance of the warm room, Eingy had gasped softy, his mouth hanging open as he gripped his heart in pain. He had obviously noticed the tougher woman's loss of physical and magical presence long ago. He had even made the agonizingly long journey up those splintered stairs and through the broken bell structure to check on her and found not even a strand of her raven hair on the floor. It was true that she was truly gone, they weren't lying about that.

Mistress Quelaag had treated him with nothing but kindness since his arrival from the Izalith ruins. Being one of the only merchants of Blighttown before the blight at the time, he had a fair grasp on the domain of the Witch Kingdom, understanding their beliefs and ways and even becoming familiar with their inhabitants all those years ago. By right of being a human not affected by the Darksign, he should indeed be little more than a pile of dust today, age and time turning his bones to sand. That had all changed when he had met the Mistress and her ailing sister, his Fair Lady, however. It had increased his lifespan to eons when he had chosen to carry the cradles of humanity that now weighed him down against the floor. Quelaan and the Fair Lady were two of the surviving daughters of Izalith that had spearheaded the refugee camp to survive the fall of their once great city, and as such were the only two to be so badly affected by the foolishness of their mother's actions, their lower halves foreve mutateo to those grotesque spider's that dribbled scorching flames between their mandibles and fangs. He had been in the days of his prime then, and had done the only thing any honorable man would have; worked his body to the brink of breaking in order to make those refugee's comfortable in his hometown that only became known for acid and decay after that damnable Bed of Chaos had sent demons to corrupt it with their putrid potency. When the Sun Lord had come with his army of Knight's and the Elite Four, Eingy had done his best to hide them all from Gwyn's furious gaze, Quelana helping in the process with her mastery of what little illusions she could muster. If they didn't, Lord Gwyn would have certainly cut them down then and there. He may have been the god of Light but he was still a battle-hardened King with no remorse for killing those he saw as diminutive or corrupted beings. He briefly wondered what ever happened to her the third Daughter of Chaos; had she perished or fled from Lordran after helping her countrymen out?

He recalled that both the Fair Lady and the Mistress hadn't spoken a word of the common tongue when he had met them. It had been difficult to converse with them at first and only the Mistress had the strength and prowess to learn it willingly when push came to shove. Those were the finest of memories to him, teaching someone with a temper as hot as her own fire how to read and write the common way, laughing along with her and the Fair Lady whenever she would stumble on a word or cross an 'i' instead of dotting it. Those were happy, peaceful times. That was… until the Fair Lady had decided to try and drain the Blight afflicting his now bleak homeland.

He and his kinsmen had warned her against it, told her their home was too far gone to be saved. The Crimson Mages of New Londo had been there to verify his worries too, but she had ignored their plea's and used what little power she had to absorb and purify the land that had been a temporary home to her and the Mistress. Her kindness had only made her suffer greater when the blight crippled her petite body and robbed her of all sight. Eingy remembered the sorrow that had punctured his heart when she was near death, resting against a broken pillar of the Bell Tower smiling tearfully at Quelaag. It had been a hasty decision and the ritual took them hours but they had saved her. However, whether her new fate as a Firekeeper had been a blessing or a curse, he couldn't say for certain even after nearly four centuries of tending to her weakened state.

_Ah, had it really been that long? How the years have flown by._

He glanced at the two new visitors that just walked through his illusionary wall and started talking with the Fair Lady, actually _talking_ to her. The shock that they had the ability to have a conversation with a woman he had tried to teach the common tongue to for _centuries_ almost made him want to roll on the floor in mild agitation, but the eggs on his back prevented that thought from becoming reality. He supposed some people were just more equipped at cross-species communication than others.

But what worried him was the fact that the Mistress had suddenly left her home of ages. He had lived with her long enough to call her his elder sister, and knew how her mind worked back to front. She wouldn't have any particular reason to leave without saying anything, or giving him explicit orders he would follow until Lordran crumbled to dust itself. Something seemed amis to him. Another glance at the odd pair standing with the Fair Lady and he sighed out tiredly. It was no use pondering on such things now, he had two new allies to the Chaos Servant Covenant, at least he assumed they had already made their pacts with the Fair Lady.

"You're wrong." Argon's voiced echoed around the room loudly, a edge to it that screamed anger. Eingy snapped his head to the undead and flexed his hand currently wearing his Pyromancy glove. He wasn't going to lose another part of his family to some stranger's short fuse.

Priscilla had also glued her gaze to the smaller of their pair and worry seeped into her being. She hadn't felt this malice from him since his hollowed mind at the Painting Hall. Her emerald orbs widened considerably when she watched those black veins stretch further across his face, creeping around the bridge of his nose like deathy fingers of a shadowed reaper. This wasn't good. It seemed deep emotion had a hand in spreading his infection, and as it stood, boiling rage was rolling off of him in buckets.

She heard a light splash of liquid through her heightened hearing and caught a thin trail of red seep out from his left hand clenched into a tight fist. His knuckles were a flaky white and his nails were biting through his fingerless gloves, explaining how the blood came to be.

Her own grip tightened on her scythe, she would have to intervene if he acted recklessly and prepared lung full's of ice in her being to stop his body from moving should it go down that road.

"You're wrong…" he whispered it this time and dropped his head, inky black hair obscuring his eyes from sight as Quelaan faced him, a confused look on her features.

"Your sister **_loved_ **you more than anything in the world. She never once thought of you as a burden, a hefty piece of baggage that she was forced to lumber around during her daily life. She would give her all to protect you!" Warm tears trickled down his white cheeks as he spoke and both Eingy and Priscilla relaxed slightly, but not enough to dissolve the newfound shock the felt at how much the man seemed to be affected by all this.

"Quelaag wasn't a lovable person. She was always on guard, always one step away from blowing her fuse, she held more hate for the world than love for it or anyone inhabiting it. But she still had a familial love that she only showed to _you_. Her sole focus was to protect _you, _love _you_, and always be there for you when you needed anything. How can you just so simply dismiss the feelings she had for you as _baggage_? Do you really think she would have done her best to lengthen your lifespan with all these miniature humanity sprites if she only saw you as an immovable weight?

"No. She would give her life for you because you were her only family after your home fell and your friends turned to savage monsters. She didn't leave because she wanted to get rid of you from her life, she would risk the very soul she possessed to have you by her side. She had to leave because it was the only way to protect you. To… to make sure no uncouth figure would ever discover you."

Quelaan and Argon were both simultaneously wailing by now, having held the raven-haired woman in such high standing that even a moment without her felt like a notched-whip to the sinews of the heart. Quelaag's body racked with sobs while Argon choked a few times before he spoke again.

"If she had to be here now… we both k-know she would say the exact s-same. She was cold monster on the outside, but she still had a heart. And I bet it beat only for you." He sniffed loudly as he watched the frail woman place her hands over her face, crying like a child that had know sorrow and unbridled pain. The logical part of his mind wondered how it was possible for tears to leak out of her eye's if she technically _had _no eyes to speak of but he squashed it down violently, this wasn't the time to be analytical.

It was no shock that he barely knew an inkling about the Second Bell's guardian, or the feelings she carried in her breast, but he would have been a fool not to have noticed the anguish she felt before dying in his arms. Those tears, that bittersweet smile, that _laugh_ that tore at him with incurable guilt as she held onto him desperately.

The few words she had spoken to him had been more than enough to identify her personality too. How could he _not_ notice it immediately when she was the same as him? Brash, loud and hard on the surface, showing indifference to everything around her. Yet, inside… inside she was a tempest of emotions, a heart that bled with the love it couldn't find the courage to show openly. He knew what that was like, he understood because nobody _but_ him _could_ understand her clearly. He may not have spent years with her to pin point exactly how she felt, but their brief exchange had been more than enough to reassure him. With those dying breaths and soft voice, Argon had found a kindred soul just like himself – his words about the woman he barely knew had to be correct. He felt it in his gut, after all. What better way to confirm something than from that particular body part that was scarcely wrong?

"Y-You are r-right." She replied shakily, bringing her hands down to clasp them in prayer again. This time he knew whom she prayed for and a small smile settled on his tear stricken face.

"How could I have been so oblivious? My poor, poor sister. Oh Quelaag, please f-forgive me…"

She sobbed again and he went forward to rest a hand on her shoulder in comfort. She stiffened at his touch, not being used to any physical contact other than her sister's but relaxed when his warmth flooded her body, her tears coming to an end.

"Thank you." She said weakly and used what little energy she had to try and smile. The end result looked more akin to a crooked grin and he had to laugh at the display. That moment of pain must have taken everything out of her.

Argon removed his hand and slid his eyes to the cacophony of eggs lining the room around him.

_So her life support hinged on these tiny sprites, did they?_

"Eingy, how dependent is Quelaan on humanity exactly?" The prone creature turned his way and frowned in confusion. What did any if this have to do with those inky sprites?

"From what I know, the _Fair Lady _doesn't depend on it." He replied with a stern look at the younger man. He may be able to speak to her and he may know the Mistress and her departure but it didn't give him the right to speak without an inkling of respect.

"She is a Firekeeper, her soul resonates with the bonfire and she is one with it. The brighter it burns, the healthier the Fair Lady is. Mistress Quelaag only used humanity to ease her suffering and slow the spread of the blight that would have eventually eaten away at her body and mind."

"So all they do is keep the blight at bay…" the undead murmured and tapped his chin in thought. "What would happen if she were given more?"

"As it stands, her servants use humanity as an offering to strengthen their covenant with the Fair Lady. Each sprite eases her pain and purges the blight infecting her. If you were referring to how to acquire a cure, I'm afraid an overabundance of those sprites would be necessary, though such a thing is not imaginable and thus, a cure is impossible." He said quietly and dropped his head in shame. He had done his best to serve her, to bring her back to health, but alas; all he could do was allow her the strength to speak and sit slightly upright. In the many days he, the servants and his Mistress had spent hunting for humanity, all they had accomplished was this little victory. There was never going to be a day whereby she would be cured, although he always blocked that thought from his mind. To do so was to admit defeat, and he would never do so when it came to the woman he served and secretly loved.

"An overabundance, huh? I wonder…"

"What is it, Argon?" Priscilla, who had been quiet during the two's exchange, finally spoke up and looked at him with curious eyes. Argon looked back at her and their gazes connected for a split second. She could see the gears turning in his head and the variables he weighed up in those amber irises of his. In turn he saw the worry she had previously held for him, the inquisitiveness she possessed when he had spoken and was that an ounce of admiration he saw as those slitted pupil's of hers contracting slightly? No, maybe he was just being silly.

Just then, an idea broke through the mist of possibilities floating in his head and he smiled so wide his wet gums showed, making Eingy frown at the maniacal look and Priscilla shiver in anticipation. She secretly loved that look of excitement he had whenever he though an ingenious idea had arrived in his calculating mind. Not that she would ever admit it. To other people that smile was _really_ creepy.

_An overabundance. Contained by one and passed down to the next; the soul of a Keeper never extinguished but forever giving life…_

He took a step towards Quelaan again and gently rested his hands on top of her clasped ones, amazed at how smooth her skin felt for a moment. She stiffened again before relaxing, realizing who it was.

"Argon?" She asked in confusion but the undead just smiled back at her unseeing face.

"After Quelaag left, she told me about you. She said you would have perished not long after her departure, but here you are still fighting to stay alive. As someone who understands the importance humanity, may this gift be a way to take you a step further toward freedom from your affliction."

She opened her mouth to question what he meant but gasped instead as her back snapped straight up, the strands of hair covering her decency abruptly falling away and Argon had the mind to point his head down in respect of not peeking at her now uncovered chest.

Eingy heard her gasp and his body immediately responded, crawling forward madly to intercept the undead from harming his master when he noticed the air begin to shift and white light burst from their held hands before he stopped and gasped in astonishment himself.

Priscilla's eyes also widened as she saw an unending stream of humanity sprites both big and small fill the frail woman with power. White light began to glow from under her pasty-colored skin and in patterns on the surface of the immobile arachnid-half.

After a few moments the tall legs of the spider began to twitch uncontrollably, strength and vigor filling it as more and more of the undeads humanity was released into the Izalith daughter. It was almost too good to be true for Quelaan. After obtaining the blight of thousand's and suffered for centuries, she had thought she would never be able to live like a normal person again. Never laugh, walk and see again, and for those long years she hadn't. She had forgotten what it was like to smell the rain, feel it on wet her skin as she stood under the starry sky. She had forgotten the sound of the wind, whistling like a merry man in Summer, unaffected by the obstacles life would throw his way. She had thought the simple things like eating and drinking would never feel enjoyable again due to the blight killing her sense of taste in the process. But now, those thoughts had been purged from her mind completely. The strength she had lost all those years ago was returning to a capacity greater than it's former size, the magic in her body swirled like the firestorms she could still manage to muster on a good day, and her body felt alive again. The true joy of being free filled her as she felt the blight seep out of her like a torrent of dirty sewage.

The exhilarating feeling of all that humanity flooding her left as soon as it had arrived and left her heaving air into her lungs as Argon removed his hands from hers, stepping a few paces back to allow her room to stand.

Her chest heaved as she gratefully sucked in air, filling her lungs with enough if it to make her head feel heavy. She flexed her arms and her spider-half planted it's pale legs firmly against the ground as it rose up resolutely, albeit a tad shaky.

A stuttered laugh left her lips as she wobbled slightly, equalling out her equilibrium. She still couldn't see although she felt new eyeball's grow behind her pale lids but she didn't bother with it. She was cured. She was _finally_ cured.

"M-My Lady…" Eingy stammered out, tears of his own falling down his cheeks like small rivers as he smiled, a feat he hadn't accomplished in many years.

Quelaan began to laugh in joy and collapsed back against the ground, her body shaking uncontrollably in a mixture of joy, shock, happiness and thanks; the prettiest smile adorning her features as she stared towards the entrance of the cave.

"Thank you Argon."

Priscilla wiped a tear from her eye and turned to look at the entrance only to see her undead companion almost completely out of the cave, save for his leg that had stopped mid-stride. She frowned and quickly made her way to his side. How in the world had he moved that fast? Had he done it while everyone was too busy rejoicing? How had she not noticed the fleeing form of the one man she nearly _always_ folllwed with her eyes, she didn't even care how weird it sounded.

Argon, for his part, had opted to refill his flask of Estus and strengthen the flames it possessed while the Izalith daughter was too busy getting used to her healed body and had quietly made his way to entrance in order to leave when the now healed woman had called out for him.

Damn her trained sense of smell.

When Priscilla had returned to his side, he turned his half-veined face her way and smiled bittersweetly before returning the porcelain mask to it's place against his cheeks and forehead.

"Live freely now, Lady Quelaan."

Without waiting for her to answer, he strode off, a cheerful cross breed in tow as they left the prone creature and the Izalith half-ling behind, dispersing the wall illusion for a second time that day. At least Eingy could remove those weird eggs from his back now, and that illusion wouldn't be needed anyway.

Argon let out a sigh as he silently climbed up the broken spiral stairway with his companion. He hoped curing Quelaan was enough to repay his debt to her raven-haired sister; yet even as he had given her the soul of the Firekeeper he had crushed before entering her chamber he still couldn't shake the guilt he felt for slaying another innocent soul. He was reminded about the undead mission he was sent on and pondered on it again as they walked.

Was it really worth it in the end? Linking the Flame would definitely kill him, he knew that much, and the Age of God's would continue to live on for another millennium or so if his own soul was strong enough. But was it what he really wanted? Look at lives affected by the Age of Fire, the families and people tainted all because of divinity lusting for complete control. Was that really the world he wanted to recreate after slaying the Lord of Cinder?

"You did what was right. I don't think Quelaag would doubt your conviction, not after you saved her only remaining sister."

He raised his head to the cross breed staring at him with kind eyes. His mind seemed to cease it's jouska1 at the sight of her whilst his heart slowed it's roll and returned time to its original speed.

"Personally I think you were more than redeemed when you gave her that Firekeeper's soul." He blushed scarlet at her words. So she had seen him consume it after all, how embarrassing.

"You became my hero the moment you acted so selflessly. Then again... I suppose you've always been my hero from the day I met you."

He begged her to stop her praise, it was too much on his poor thumping heart.

With a sigh and another smile that adorned his face due to his companion's divine intervention from his wayward thoughts, Argon reached into his bottomless box and withdrew a crackling orb of orange and red flame.

"Then I suppose I can finally let her rest," he said and stopped at the foot of the stairway of the Bell Tower, feeling the breeze of the open space of what was Quelaag's domain.

"I think she deserves it."

"Is that…"

"Her soul. I… I couldn't bring myself to consume it. Not after all she had sacrificed."

Priscilla placed a comforting hand on his bare shoulder affectionately. She knew how much pain he must have been feeling to carry it around for so long. He always bottled the worst emotions, but she knew how many nights he must have spent just staring at her soul in his hand. How pain, regret, guilt and sorrow had eaten away at his heart and mind when he looked at it and felt it's warmth. It was a burden he had allowed to weigh him down for too long, a burden he would now cast aside with her help.

"I lied to her, Priscilla." He said her name so softly it squeezed her heart flat.

"She wouldn't have been able to handle the real truth. You knew that when you said Quelaag departed Blighttown."

"But does that make it any better? I still lied to her. I'm still her sister's killer, dammit! She allowed a murderer to heal her, to touch her, to give her hope. Just how disgusting does that make me?"

He began to quiver and she rested her other hand over his left shoulder, pulling him forward to rest his head against her bosom. His hand cradled the soul closer to himself protectively but he sighed out shakily in her embrace.

"Is this what it means to be the Chosen Undead? Am I to kill more innocent souls just so that the likes of your uncle and his ilk can live in prosperity while everyone else suffers? Why risk the lives of Ornstein, of Smough just for simple _vessel_ of all trinkets? Did my journey ringing both Bell's and dying three score for every boss I face mean nothing but a trifle to them?!"

The goddess' hands slid their way up from his square shoulders to curl up in his straight hair, slowly unclasping the plain mask from his face as he continued to shake in both sadness and rage.

"Is the journey I'm on not a quest to save the world but to damn it further into the void that surrounds it? Did Frampt and Gwyndolin simply twist the truth so that I would become a pawn for them to use and dispose of when the deed was done?"

His mask had already been removed from his face by the time he stopped talking to think again about his perilous journey. All the while Priscilla remained silent, pressing his face closer to her heart and listening to him vent. He needed to uncork those emotions he had put a dampener on for too long.

"And what of Laurentius?" He gasped with wide eyes. "I forced him to brave Izalith and defeat the mother of the art he loves so dearly. Why didn't I ever take his feelings into greater account? How does he feel about this entire arrangement he agreed to without hesitation? Is he only doing it because I saved him and he feels he has a debt to pay to me?! Why… why was I so blind!"

He stiffened in her embrace and turned his head upwards a fraction, his body shivering uncontrollably. "What do you think about all this? Have I damned you to dispair with my blind decisions, too? You probably think I'm being blasphemous, I'm talking about abandoning this quest, after all." He sobbed quietly and pulled his head an inch away from her warm body to stare blindly at her.

"Forgive me. I'd understand if you decided to part our separate ways…"

_That's it._

Priscilla forced his head back against her body and wrapped her arms around him tightly, unshamed of how unladylike it was.

"Thou silly undead," she whispered to him, "why dost thine spirit tear asunder in the face of such challenges? Art thou not the Chosen Undead that hath saveth me without a mumur of worry?"

Argon breathed out shakily and laughed weakly.

"Can this undead really be called 'chosen' for attempting to double-cross the god's themselves?"

"Maybe if thy fate was to be _chosen_ to do'eth so, then the issue, I see not." He seemed to regain his resolve as he chuckled louder and removed himself from her embrace.

She felt like pulling him back but resisted the urge, her eye's sparkling when he gave her that toothy grin of his that made her spine tingle. Although half his face was scarred with thin black veins he was still the most handsome human- no, man she had ever come across. In fact, all those corrupted tendrils did was amplify her attraction to him, she couldn't deny it.

"Thanks for calming me down, you can stop talking like that now." She giggled and returned his mask to him. He held it in his hand but didn't put it on, opting to stare into her eye's as he spoke again.

"What will you do after I've made my decision?"

"I'll do what I've always done, follow you of course."

"Are you sure it's me you want to follow? The road I'm taking is against the god's, against your family. They'll kill me and ensure I never revive if they find out, you as well for accompanying me."

"I'd follow you into the Abyss and back if that's where you wanted to go. As for my family, I don't have that much attachment to them to care what happens."

Argon narrowed his eyes and gave her a hard stare. She stared back impassively, slitted pupil's contracting.

"Is that you're final decision, to betray the god's and let the Flame die out?"

"My decision is to follow you. Whatever you decide, wherever you go, I will be with you every step of the way."

"Good, because I'm not going to let the Flame die out." He sighed dramatically, body deflating.

Priscilla faltered and frowned at him. "Argon?"

"You know how boring that'd be? It's still a perfectly good Flame, we could still use it for something else, like frying some meat or cooking a nice stew over it."

"Argon!"

"What, it's still just a bonfire. What would it say? 'I'm made for consuming undead, not cooking your stupid fish on a stick, go away'?"

At this point, the cross breed was in stitches with laughter, hands wrapped over her convulsing stomach as she gasped for air and rested on her knees.

"Thank you." She looked at him as he admired Quelaag's soul prettily flickering in his palm. "You saved me from giving up there. Laurentius would have beaten me black and blue if he saw what a sorry state I was in."

Priscilla smiled warmly at him, her hands absently twirling a braid of her hair as red began to creep onto her cheeks. She was just so damn adorable when she was flustered. He couldn't help himself from making it a habit to see it continuously, it was the only things keeping him sane, really.

He gave a sad look to the soul in his had and it crackled like so many of the bonfire's he had visited along the way.

"Rest now Quelaag… And thank you."

He crushed the soul in his hand and inhaled deeply as euphoria filled his senses, momentarily numbing his brain before he felt his Darksign grow cold again after sucking up every last fraction from the soul capsule.

"Sir Laurentius must be waiting for us to return. We have been gone for quite a while now."

"I'm sure he's not worrying, not with Quelana as his company. Those two are probably studying the Flame of Desire right about now, the most potent pyromancy if you asked me."

His companion flushed red and 'eeped'. The undead could be so blunt and suggestive sometimes and he didn't even care. It was most intriguing and flustering at the same time.

"Speaking of the Flame of Desire…"

"Uhm, y-yes?" She asked meekly, she swore she would faint if he was going to suggest what she thought he was going to suggest. Was she ready for such a dance so private? It was too soon. They hadn't even had the chance to kiss yet, never mind do… do THAT! Was he experienced in this field? If so who had he experienced it with? Wait, why did she care, it was his past, not his present. Did he even have **_protection_ **on him? She _was_ fertile as of late. Hold on, why was she thinking about this again? Oh, no, stop thinking! Shut up! Shut up! Shut u-

"We need to get you a proper set of clothing, you've shrunk again." Argon said. If she shrunk one more time, that gown would make its grand exit and give him a grand nosebleed.

Priscilla mentally sighed and screamed in frustration. She knew he could be overly suggestive but why did he have to take it so far? She nearly had a half-dragon heart attack!

Just as she was about to say something about his lack of tact, they both noticed a small pool of dark red liquid grow in the middle of the chamber. Argon frowned before his eyebrow quirked as a spike-armoured gauntlet rose from said pool to pull out the shoulder it was attached to, which then proceeded to pull out a head, armoured abdomen and legs that stood tall and glared at him through shadowed slits in it's visor. It held a thorny straight-sword and an equally menacing sheild peppered with ugly spikes of the same design and ominous black waves casacded off and caressed the red phantoms body.

A grin cracked Argon's already amused features and he replaced his mask against his face, drawing a longsword from his bottomless box.

"Well hello there, Kirk."

* * *

**Okay, you must be wondering where the hell the action, blood and gore come in after not one, but three chapters that have remained clean of a spot of blood, well, mostly.**

**The action will come very soon, immediately in the next chapter actually. I was meant to include it here but the chapter was a bit too long with all the mushy stuff and I thought I'd segregate the different themes (look at me, going all F. W De Klerk on this story).**

**To address some matter's:**

**I changed Eingy's background to an inhabitant of the old Blighttown (for lack of a better name, I'll call it Nicetown). He was previously a merchant that travelled around Lordran and helped the likes of Quelana, Quelaag and Quelaan (that's what I've decided to call her sister, I think that's her fanmade name, right?) and the other refugees of Izalith when the Bed of Chaos was created. He hid the spider half-ling pair from Gwyn when he eveually came through Nicetown to spare them from death due to mutation. He taught Quelaag to speak the common tongue and became like family to them, while also falling for Quelaan which I mention briefly. Since Eingy is still human but not undead, he was granted greater longevity due to choosing to carry the humanity eggs that sustain Quelaan, although he still ages and is more like a sixty-ish year old man now physically. His relationship with Quelaag is more familial than anything else.**

**Quelaan is now healed of the blight that was slowly(very slowly if she survived centuries) killing her and no longer feels that she was a burden to her sister. In the game, when she thinks she talking to Quelaag, she tries a lot to placate the player that they don't need to worry about her and that she's fine, emphasising the fact that she either doesn't want to be a burden to her sister or that in truth, she's really just fine and doesn't need help for the moment. I used that to create the protectiveness Quelaag has over her and because of it, how bad Quelaan feels as taking care of her frail body and hunting for humanity to ease her pain is a strenuous task for anyone to do. As such, she feels like a heavy burden to Quelaag and wanted nothing more than to see her free and unhindered, which is why Argon lied to her that her sister 'departed from this place'. As for her illness, logically since she's a Firekeeper, she can't actually die unless someone kills her physically, meaning her soul is strong enough to keep her alive but the blight is still making her suffer because its like living with cancer, you're still dying on the inside. The humanity acts like the antidote to clear that cancer (and in reality I believe that such a cure WILL** **be created so that the bastardous disease can finally bite the dust for good). **

**The Firekeeper souls Argon has are Anastasia's and the deceased one found in the side entrance of Blighttown, where the poison-shooting lizards are. Argon crushed the long deceased one and absorbed all the humanity it possessed. In canon, those souls will give you 5 humanity if crushed(which sucks unless you exploit it), so in this case I figured that since it was that old that the name of the Firekeeper was forgotten, it had to have been passed through many generations and gained a plethora of humanity (over a 1, 000 since just 100 would be dumb, have you stopped to count how many eggs were in Quelaag's domain? A LOT). I was going to leave Anastasia dead but I thought about how she would tie into the story better if she were revived (or because I like her as a character) so I've decided that she will live. Yay!**

**Laurentius and Quelana (hubba hubba) are in love! They're going to have a kid and call him Quentius. He'll be stronger than Salaman and have a badass tomahawk (just kidding sorry). Those two make quite a nice pair, I only realized it a few moments ago 0o0**

**The undead eventually is out of the bag (I can hear the angel's calling as you all beat me with spiked clubs for ruining the ending) but is it really? As much as Argon just leaving the Flame alone to snuggle up with Priscy' sounds lovely, it's quite a bland ending. I want to spice it up.**

**People are still waiting for the god of war (enter the wondrous body of Solaire) and the other awaiting NPC's to help Argon in his endeavour's. They will be here soon(*voice of Gaara).**

**And Darkwraith Argon… you guys really don't like him, well, the few that have said so at least. I'll say this much without ruining the plot; he isn't gonna be the main antagonist, so if you were thinking he was (maybe a lot of you) then you're mistaken. If you want, I'll do another fic with a dark-side protagonist and see how it goes after this one is over.**

**Definition's: **

** _Jouska - _A continuous, hypothetical argument/conversation you compulsively play in your head.**

**Please do R and R(ampersand, come back to meeeee!), I'd always love to hear what the people reading my work think as well as any advice. I accept all comments, flames (mmm, toasty), questions (I have answers), or praise (if you have any and what to share) you might have for me.**

**Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Chapter 9 will come sooner than expected if my bloody Word App doesn't flip out on me again even after I've updated it and finally allows me to upload to the site instead of pasting and re-editing it (what a drag it is).**

**Have an amazing day and be safe.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Again, I want to thank all of you that are following my fic and that have favorited it so far. I never thought people would enjoy my work because of the overly abused vocabulary and need for one too many comma's but look at how far this fic has come. I appreciate all of you from the follower to the commenter, you really make my week worth the extra fight.**

**_-isn't there something else you should be saying to our readers?_ **

**Yes, thank you for telling me!**

**_-you're welcome (anything to stop him from becoming all mushy, ew.)_ **

**I thought I'd share some AWESOMEsauce fics with you that _definitely_ deserve to be read for they hold the pricelessness of bountiful gems in value! **

* * *

**Note the following stories and their Author's:**

**_Hope of the Shield Hero_ by _Allen Blaster_ (this has a startling popularity for ROTSH fans like myself; more than worthwhile to read)**

**_Mask of the Child_ by _MungoJerry_ **

**_Raven's Souls_ by _RavenSouls_ **

* * *

**If any of these authors are reading this (it would be absolutely mind blowing if my favorite writers read even one of my fics) and disagree with me mentioning your fics for people to read, please tell me and I shall remove it immediately. I apologize if this has offended you in any way.**

**_-are you done now?_ **

**Why are you impatient today?**

**_-Kirk._ **

**Yeah, he's a captain, so what?**

**_-Darkwraith Kirk, you apologetic dolt._ **

**Ah… you're eager to see the fight, I suppose.**

**_-that eagerness will turn to anger IF YOU DON'T HURRY UP AND GET ON WITH THE DAMN STORY!_ **

**Yikes! (*ducks from incoming projectile) okay, OKAY! On with the story!**

**_-about damn time. You're annoying everyone with your long-ass author's note's…_ **

* * *

Darkwraith Kirk, the Knight of Thorns, stood impassively in the wide-open space of Quelaag's Domain as he observed his two targets with narrowed red eye's.

All who had known him had stared in fear as the infamous and terrible Darkwraith would slay his victims and absorb the humanity they had been foolish enough to keep on their person without wards of protection. Those who had seen his grim helm and felt the putrid aura of his phantasmic form invade their undead senses would prostate themselves before his spiked boots and await inevitable doom. For the act of a Wraith to invade and hunt an undead meant that the Abyss had need of such a prized and worthy vessel to house its malice and despair.

Any undead that had ever lived in Lordran from the genesis of its dystopia understood the unending pursuit of a Darkwraith; never sleeping, never tiring and never waiting. These embodiments of true death could never be beaten in combat due to their unlimited stamina and abyssal skill in combat, should one come face to face with such an entity, their best option was to run as far and best as they possibly could. For if a wraith found you and cornered you…

At the high command of these horrid deathly visages sat the Knight of Thorns himself, Kirk. A King amongst the Darkwraith's. Whose heart festered with malice and eye's burned with unholy fire that tainted, morphed and maimed all it touched.

But what scared the undead of Lordran more than the frightening appearance of a Darkwraith, was the appearance of this _particular _one. Kirk was the master of all wraith's, ordered by the progenitor of the abyssal scourge alone. If he was the one commanded to claim your soul, it meant you would suffer something far worse than any death imaginable.

Said commander flexed his grip on the hilt of his straight sword. After the immense surge of humanity, he and his subordinates had felt not too long ago, he had decided to make a personal visit to its source - impatient in his desire to slay the undead that held such an abundance of life. When the wraith had finally arrived at the area in question, however, phantasmic body pulsating with red rot and dark power, he had glared harder and funneled his hatred to focus on one of the two people he saw before him now.

_Argon._

The name of the first target that had ever evaded his assault caused his black blood to boil in rage. The masked undead that had cheated death from claiming his worthless soul and the abyss from its wanted meal. His entire _presence_ caused the Darkwraith to see red, yet Kirk just stood there silently and emitted killing intent that sizzled the dry air and caused the ground to crack under the pressure. The undead he had come for again simply chuckled at him.

He **_hated_ **him.

In their past encounter's, he had thought they were at a simple stalemate in battle, each sporting equal nicks, gashes and bumps on their bodies and armor alike. However, even after all that swordplay and tactical attacking, the undead had begun to mock him by showing the wraith that he had been holding back, punctuation this at one of their battle's by drawing a hammer the size of a dead tree from somewhere behind his back and pummeling the Darkwraith's phantasmic body to a pulp on the floor.

Although Kirk had fought in his phantom form, oddly each strike delivered to him by the masked undead had physically appeared on his actual body, shocking and weakening his connection to the red puppet that fought for him. An event that was not meant to occur, especially not with an _undead_ of all beings. To say that the wraith felt pissed to his core after mending his broken limbs that day had been the _worst_ understatement ever.

Their second encounter together had done nothing but spur him to growl dangerously at the annoyingly jovial undead as they clashed swords - or rather boot's this time - atop the precarious ledge that stuck out of the Undead Asylum like a sore tooth. Instead of grappling with the thorny visage of death like a noble warrior, the accused fool had _kicked_ him off the snowy cliff, thus ending their battle and making Kirk roar at the absurdity of it all.

The subsequent duels, ambushes and traps the Knight of Thorns had used to incapacitate that forever chuckling fool had all come close to scratching the tip of that somehow unreachable goal, but not quite making it that far still. The masked man would still taunt, laugh, and dance around Kirk as if he where some ill-bred child seeking attention.

But today would be different.

Indeed, the Commander of the Darkwraith's had said so many, many times before and come up short, but today he felt invigorated. Rejuvenated. Almost _powerful. _After feeling that almighty deposit of humanity explode in the Izalith Ruins, he had immediately used an effigy of the red orb Kaathe had given him to invade that area in search of the owner of that delicious substance, like a moth drawn to white flame. When he had discovered that said owner was the one man he had been _itching_ to kill, anyone present could only imagine the joy he felt.

As he stood waiting patiently for the undead, his grip like a steel vice on his sword, he granted himself a moment to glance at the man's companion, a woman clad in what once was a beautiful gown. It briefly caught his attention that she possessed a tail and scales, and he obviously upraised the divinity she carried as some cross breed, but ignored it in favor of her tall scythe, glinting against his visor.

It stood on thick, dark wood, unbreakable due to ancient magic imbued into it, and at the edge of the staff rested a marvelously long blade of wicked metal, polished and baring its deadly fangs for all to see. Kirk new that scythe, he had been one of the victims to _fall_ by it once upon a time. One of the only weapons in Lordran forged with an Occultic Ember.

He quirked a thin eyebrow at the revelation. So that unruly undead had a goddess in his party, how interesting.

"Since I'm a good mood, I might actually take you seriously this time, Kirky." His face reverted to its deep scowl again as he snapped his head to Argon. He was going to enjoy killing this man for all the dishonor he had brought to his master for not acquiring such a disgusting soul.

"Argon, wait." He heard the cross breed call out and watched her take a step forward. Kirk tensed and readied himself, facing a goddess would make the stakes considerably higher in difficulty. The wraith prepared to raise his spiked shield to the tall woman but stopped when Argon raised a hand to her in reply.

"Don't worry about this one. It'll be over in no time." The undead stated and began to remove the brigand armor from his body, undoing the belts at the sides of his hips, stomach and chest before pulling the mass of leather off to reveal chiseled, pale skin beneath.

"What are you doing?!" She stuttered out and hid her face behind her hands, sneaking a few peek's through her long finger's. When Argon began to remove his baggy trousers, her face turned scarlet. "That phantom could attack at any time!"

"Nah, he'll wait. He always does."

He said that, but it didn't mean the blood flowing out of her nose would do the _same_. Why did he have do the most absurd things amid a crucial moment? Then again, the goddess corrected herself, he wouldn't be Argon if he _didn't_ such things. She remembered the time he had stripped down the day after meeting her, unashamed and indecent. And then, when she had voiced her extreme discomfort – although she had thought of the memory most fondly afterwards – he had acted confused as if becoming an exhibitionist was the most natural thing in the world when meeting a stranger.

Kirk, for his part, gained a tick mark on his forehead as he watched the exchange patiently. One, the cross breed with no subtlety at all had forgotten that he, the Knight of Thorns, existed; being referred to as 'that phantom'. Two, he was being placed in the same category as a common cat despite the pure terror he wrought with a simple act of walking. And three, the undead was taking his _sweet_ time preparing for his inevitable demise.

It wasn't the first time the undead had halted their battle to strip down to nothing but his mask and loincloth. Every battle after the first had started like this; Kirk would appear, wait for him to strip and then fight for his soul.

The wraith knew the act of otherworldly combat with an invading effigy possessed certain requirements of an undead, but he hadn't bothered to learn them. He was a Darkwraith more focused on collecting souls, not observing them.

The King of Thorns breathed out a sigh of relief as Argon approached, finally ready, and gave him a deep bow before drawing an odd-looking ring shield that glowed at its rim and initiated the fight.

_Finally_

Kirk dashed forward with surprised dexterity for being clad in heavy armor and his blade few diagonally at the nude man. Argon's blade connected with his and sparks flew from where light metal met thorned iron. They pushed at the strike for a moment before Kirk jumped back, stabled his footing and rolled forward like a spiky porcupine, shield out to dig into his foe's pale skin.

The undead raised his shield in reply and the thorns clanked against the glowing metal, forcing him back one, two, three steps before Kirk rose up with a wide sweep of his sword. Argon pivoted on his out stretched foot and leaned out of the blade's path. He dug his heel into the broken earth and jumped over the next swipe and raised his shield as Kirk slammed the third strike down heavily. His shoulder shuddered from the attack, but he held the shield tight in his grip, quickly ramming it forward into the Darkwraith's side and making him stumble back but not fall.

Argon rose to his feet slowly and stood a few feet from the red phantom. Black wisps of air caressed Kirk's armor like ugly fingers as he took a new stance and rushed the undead. He thrust his sword at Argon's chest and growled when the masked man skipped back out of its way before Kirk spun and aimed to cleave the masked head from Argon's muscled shoulders.

The undead raised his sword, deflected the attack and kicked him square in the chest area that didn't possess any thorns, chuckling lightly as the wraith stumbled back again before Argon raised his shield arm towards the ceiling.

"Air Strike Shield!"

He brought the ringed shield down and an arc of pure white energy left its glowing edge, striking Kirk with a strong blast of magic and tipping him onto his back, his red form blurring from the impact before re-condensing to the shape of his armor.

He heard the undead begin to laugh and he seethed against the ground. He was being played with again.

"Bah ha ha ha! I've always wanted to say that line from the time I got this thing!"

Kirk rose and rested his own shield against his back, two handing his blade and taking slow steps towards the undead that seemed to be gasping for air due to how badly he was laughing. The Darkwraith ground his teeth as he approached, how dare he mock the Knight of Thorns like the common trash he was?!

The wraith leaped from his position on the ground and raised his sword above his head. Argon saw him coming and tried to strike him with another blast from that glowing circular ring, but Kirk used the momentum to deftly twirl around it and plow into the space of land Argon had once occupied, creating a cloud of dust around them.

When it had settled, Kirk drew his blade form the broken floor and turned to face him again, lifting his right hand from the blades hilt as his glove began to glow white. The undead was only a foot away from him, a single step and his soul would be claimed. Excitement began to churn inside Kirk's chest as he reared the glowing hand back and took a strong step forward.

Argon had taken a while to recover from all the dust that had flown through the slits in his mask. When he managed to regain his sight and see the wraith's glowing hand cocked back to grab him, he frowned. Kirk had never used _this_ attack before. What was he up to? The undead decided that he didn't want to find out and raised his arm again to stop the attack but was surprised when Kirk's hand flew passed the defense of his ringed shield, aiming to wrap around his throat.

Kirk grunted loudly when his Dark Hand was momentarily stopped by a blade through his wrist. He turned his gaze to said hand a saw the undead twist a throwing knife into his armor, his fist impaled by the multiple thorns on his gauntlet.

This was becoming annoying. The abyss wanted this infuriating undeads soul and it would have it. No amount of stalling would pause the inevitable. His Life-drain ability would see to that. All he needed was to lay a finger on the masked man. No knife would hinder that.

"Priscilla," the undead grunted out as he dropped his shield down to push Kirk's arm away. "Go down to the Ruin's. Warn Quelaan in case I let Kirk slip passed!"

At the mention of the Chaos Sister, Kirk faltered long enough for Argon to shove his arm away. The Darkwraith stumbled back another step and glared at the undead kneeling on the floor. His wrist stung as he pulled the projectile from it.

They knew about Quelaan. How? They had found her hidden entrance. Was it due to the cross breed's magical prowess? Why hadn't Quelaag come to slay the interloper's in her domain yet? Had this unflappable fool slain her? Impossible.

Questions filled with worry entered his mind as he watched the goddess fly up the stairwell of the Bell Tower. Argon stood up after repositioning his shield somewhere behind his back before it disappeared and levelled his blade at the wraith.

"Well, shall we continue?"

Kirk could imagine the smug look behind that mask of his as he acted confident in the face of his finality, but for once the Darkwraith's thoughts weren't focused on the undead as he tried to put the pieces together.

He had come here personally because of the mass of humanity he had felt. Kaathe hadn't argued or voiced any opinion due his blind trust in the thorned-knight's abilities and loyalty, an odd occurrence for a snake. But in truth, the Commander of the Darkwraith's had made the journey here for one purpose, one _person_ in particular. The frail and passive of the Izalith daughters.

He may have been a wraith forever tasked with hunting undead, but he was still potentially human. The care he had shown for the weak woman proved as much. Even if he was here to claim another pathetic undeads soul, Quelaan's safety took priority over the desires of that toothy serpent.

His eye's widened as he sorted through the information he had gathered thus far, his mind racing as he glanced from Argon, to the fleeing cross breed, to the Bell Tower.

There had been a mass of humanity almost incomprehensible in size that had exploded in the ruined entrance of Izalith. He knew that no soul alive could possess that much of the black sprites besides a Firekeeper that was forever tortured and in agony by the undeads only source of sanity.

Rage burned in his chest as he stared at Argon. Had this insolent worm slain the woman he had betrayed Kaathe for? The frail sister that he had given every last humanity to so wouldn't suffer much more? She was less harmful that a crystal lizard and wouldn't have harmed a hair on an insane hollow's head due to her innocence. Quelaan was too frail to even _smile _properly and this disgusting trash had found it befitting to _kill _her?!

Kirk's vision filled with red as his legs rushed towards the smug undead, all thoughts of his fake loyalty to Kaathe obliterated at he was assaulted by unholy anger that blocked all sense of logic.

They had dared to _touch_ the woman he had sworn to protect. His mission be damned, Argon was as good as **_dead._ **

* * *

The warm air crackled with intensity as Argon blocked another heavy strike from the Darkwraith before him. He had acted smug before and done his best to rile up the thorny-knight as usual, but the truth was that Argon was hanging on to this battle by the skin of his teeth.

If the emotional conflict he had just had earlier with Priscilla had not been enough to wear his battered body out, then the expulsion of just over a thousand sprites of humanity had certainly done its job to drop his stamina to a tenth of its original reserves. He had thought that giving away so much of the resource would be like spending his souls at the bonfire to enhance his abilities but had not accounted for the fact that _by_ resting at a bonfire while doing so meant he didn't feel the physical strain of expelling a couple thousand souls at a time. The humanity he had given to Quelaan had drained him to the point of blacking out, and to top it all off, he hadn't gotten the chance to rest his body at her bonfire before departing.

But what had made him more cautious despite his aloof personality was the fact that Kirk wasn't acting like his usual lonesome self. Normally he would simply fight him, fall for a few of Argon's snide tactics and his phantasmic body would dissipate, giving the undead more time to come up with a better strategy to defeat him again and live another day.

This was a whole other level of intensity. Kirk was acting like a mad man; flinging strikes, punches, boots and back-hands his way desperately as they fought. He hadn't used his rolling tactic once during their continued duel and he barely flinched when Argon would grace his ominous form with a deep gash or stab. If this continued and Kirk decided to use that glowing hand of his again, Argon knew he would not be able to counter it due to how badly his energy levels were drained.

The undead raised his now dented longsword horizontally as the Darkwraith struck it with his own blade, the sound of ringing metal cascading throughout the open space. Argon's knee's buckled but he fought through the lameness in his muscles, holding his position and forcing the Knight of Thorns into the defensive.

The wraith merely snarled loudly and twisted, his blade screeching across Argon's before he delivered a strong kick to his nude midsection, sending the undead flying a few feet backwards, his sword clattering uselessly at Kirk's feet.

His thorned boots snapped the blade in two as he stomped forward, his breathing ragged and his grip tight on the hilt of his sword. Kirk stopped a foot in front of Argon and leveled his blade at his chest, mirroring the undeads actions prior to their second go at their duel.

"Why?" His voice travelled out from the many holes in his helm like a whispered sigh. It was clear he didn't use his voice much at all. Argon, for his part, looked up surprised at the wraith.

"What?"

"Why did you slay her? She was frail, incapable of fighting back."

Argon frowned. He hadn't known the Darkwraith _could_ speak for starters, and besides that, just who exactly was he talking about?

"I don't know what yo-"

"Enough!" Kirk shouted and drove his blade though Argon's shoulder, impaling him against the floor as he gasped in pain. The sound would have been satisfactory to the wraith were he not drenched in anger.

"That expulsion of humanity, it only comes from a Firekeeper. You murdered her to satiate your greed for a simple _sprite_? Does an undead know no bounds?!"

Argon had tried to summon his catalyst from his storage, but his focus was too broken to even pull out a firebomb. The pain and exhaustion were like an anvil dropped onto his chest.

He watched as Kirk raised his hand again, glove glowing a shiny white.

He was going to meet his end, it seemed. The undead couldn't help but chuckle despite the current event taking place. He had just saved one of the seven Sisters of Izalith and now he was going to die to a Darkwraith… how unfairly the gods of this world were. He briefly wondered who the next Chosen Undead would be if he truly died here and now. Who else would be willing to take on a quest as impossible as the thought of Seath bedding Gwynevere in his dragon-form? Certainly not Grigg's, he was too busy searching for this 'Master Logan' scoundrel that had abandoned him years ago. Maybe Solaire? He hadn't seen the sun-praiser in quite a while, he regretted not being able to see him at least one more time. The optimistic side of him reasoned that he would at least get to see Oscar again in whatever afterlife there was. If it even existed for undead like him.

"I _will_ avenge Quelaan." Kirk said through gritted teeth as he crouched down over Argon's body. The undead raised an eyebrow behind his mask. Hadn't he _just_ told Priscilla to guard her, how could he have slain her?

The Knight of Thorns raised his glowing hand, Life-drain spell prepped and ready to be used against his slippery foe. For a moment, Kirk was almost happy with himself. He was about to claim the soul of the undead that had evaded capture countless times, the undead that had slain the woman he had tried so hard to protect and heal without her banshee of a sister noticing. Yet at the same time, he felt deep loss. What use was it to slay this undead when he had already taken his only reason to live?

Before he could expand that thought further, Kirk felt the blast of a fire across his spine that flung him over Argon, as if a giant had used a great hammer to swat him aside.

The phantasmic form he possessed blurred thickly, the red and black swirls violently thrashing to quickly re-condense into his body. He groaned silently as he raised himself up to his knees. That had been pyromancy, but more than that, it had burned him. Not his corporeal form, his _physical_ one.

_Chaos fire…_

He turned around and saw two new figures enter the vast space and rush to the undeads side; it was a black-robed woman and a man dressed in swamp rags. Both pyromancer's. Kirk attempted to stand but found his armor flicker and become transparent in the process. The orb he possessed was losing its power, it couldn't keep him here long.

He growled loudly, his luck had just turned sour. How fitting.

Quelana raised her catalyst at the phantom, murmuring softly under her breath as pools of liquid fire began to dot around the Knight of Thorns like geyser's. While she busied herself with dealing the killing blow to their intruder, Laurentius dashed to Argon's aid, tearing off his mask and pouring torrents of his Estus into the undeads mouth while simultaneously wrenching the sword from his shoulder.

The thorned blade left jagged trench's in Argon's skin like thin, dug up tunnels as the sword was jerked out of his shoulder. White pain flashed across Argon's brain and he choked on the Estus Laurentius fed him, gasping in both agony and relief as the wound sealed up, skin mildly smoking as his healing factor was sped up.

"Guah! That hurts goddammit!"

"Ooh, sorry mate." The pyromancer said flinching. He hadn't attempted to pull the weapon out that fast. Then again, it wouldn't have hurt that much if the undead had been wearing armor in the _first_ place. Where had his brigand gear gone to?

"Sure, you are," said undead glared back before allowing his friend to pull him to his feet. "You took your sweet time getting here. What were you learning, the art of coitus?"

"I-I don't know what you're insinuating."

"You stammered and you're blushing." Argon sighed out.

"Lucky bas-"

"Begone abyssal find!"

Both men turned their attention to the Chaos Sister's outburst just in time to see pillars of orange flame erupt around the Darkwraith, who hadn't paid attention to the glowing halo about to burst at his feet.

"Quelana, wait!" Argon spoke and ran towards the wraith but wasn't fast enough to reach him as his phantasmic body was blasted skyward, like an almighty fist crunching into his armored form.

Kirk shouted out as his form was set alight while airborne, his arms and legs flailing as his body connected with the ground again, spreading his shadowy visage like mixed paint onto the scorched earth. His body didn't dissipate but he wasn't moving either. Argon sighed. He had been wanting to finish their duel without any interruption, as foolish as it sounded when it was obvious Kirk would have been the winner a few moments ago. However, as an undead, Argon respected the sacredness of any duel as tradition explained. The undead merchant called him unreasonably stupid for thinking that way - and had charged him more for his wares out of spite - but he understood the meaning of such an exchange.

Time here was convoluted, the people here back-stabbers and the only safe haven around was the sanctity of a fire that took away more than it ever gave. But in battle, one wouldn't be shackled by the yoke this world ensnared its people in. Opposing foes could freely dictate the terms of their own lives, as they were to revive to the slaughter again and again.

Combat shared the thoughts of your enemy, expanded his deepest desire's as you experienced their past with every blow they dealt. Even if Kirk was Darkwraith, the bane of all undead, Argon still felt he deserved a proper battle each and every time. And after what he had witnessed today from dueling the thorned man, he felt the half-putrefied heart in his chest stop momentarily.

He approached the grounded phantom that had yet to rise, Laurentius and Quelana flanking both sides behind him. That blast had been powerful, enough to put a stray demon down, if he were being honest, yet the Knight of Thorns still clung to what little power remained in this effigy of his form. For that, the undead applauded his spirit. He stopped a few feet away from the phantasmic wraith in case it was all a ruse and made the logical decision to equip clothing to cover his bare form - their duel had ended already; and besides that, Quelana looked as though she was going to faint from the amount of blood gushing out of her nose from staring at his bare physique in astonishment.

The trio waited a moment more for the wraith to stand but he didn't do so much as flex his gloved fingers, all the while fading and reappearing in this effigy of his. They could all hear the pained whisper he repeated continuously like a mantra until Argon stepped forward and crouched down next to his shoulder.

"Those egg's cradling her body wasn't Quelaag's doing… was it?"

Kirk growled. His helm faced the opposite direction and his hands flexed and relaxed continuously, as if the Darkwraith were anticipating Argon to leave his guard open. Upon the undeads closer inspection, however, it was clear that the blast he had suffered not long ago prevented him from moving his anything save for a few fingers. Quelana had effectively immobilized the notorious commander of the Darkwraith's.

"I'm guessing Quelaag didn't know you paid her sister regular visits? She would have said so otherwise." Argon continued, idly tugging the long sleeves of the painting guardian garb he had equipped. It may have been too flashy and offered no protection, but it was comfortable to wear down here.

Kirk remained silent as Argon rose and paced towards the thorned sword that had bitten into him earlier. Quelana, for her part simply gawked silently at the undead, her hand to her mouth.

She had been under the impression that the gentlest of her sister's had perished long ago when she had absorbed the blight into herself. She knew that Argon had slain Quelaag, she had been the one to task him with the slaying of her sister to end the half-breed's suffering, even it was selfish of her. But now all she felt was guilt and shame. Had she known or had the courage to find out the truth, things could have turned out differently for the bravest of her family. The raven-haired mistress wouldn't have had to be slain by Argon if Quelana had risen above her fears and now she felt the weight of her consequences, the fact that she had sentenced her own blood to death sickened her to her core.

"I'll be back for you…" she heard the wraith say through gritted teeth. Her attack had wounded him badly. He would soon perish if he stayed in this form for much longer, but he was still undead, as ironic as it may have been. And now he had a greater purpose; to seek revenge. A motivation unlike any other, she knew.

Quelana had once also felt the burn of vengeance in her chest when Gwyn had come to slay any sick survivors of her home that day. It had made her bitter, temperamental and arrogant. So much so, in fact, that it had taken a human outcast called Salaman to show her that it was all a means to an end.

The Sunlight Lord had already died after sacrificing his life for the Flame… what use was her vengeance if she couldn't even reach the man that had haunted her dream's those many nights ago if he waited behind enchanted doors for his chosen successor?

"No, you won't." Argon replied and crouched next to him, resting the hilt of his blade in the palm of his gloved finger's. He wouldn't have been able to use it even if he could move his broken arms, the exhaustion that came from overusing his phantasmic body was too great a drawback.

"But you did fight well today, I must admit. Quelaan would be proud of her Knight in spiked armo-"

"Do _not_ speak to me so freely. Your life would have been mine were it not for the witch's interference."

For the second time that day, Argon raised an amused eyebrow. How could someone so badly beaten and humiliated still have enough pride to shame a lion?

"Make no mistake," Kirk seethed through the square holes in his bucket-shaped helm. "I'll come back for you, putrid dog. Her blood stains your hands. It's only a matter of time before I relocate your presence and claim your soul, and when that time comes, I'll be there _personally_." The wraith growled in pain, face still gazing away from the undead for some odd reason.

Argon simply found his words annoying. _Again, _he sighed. How could he have killed the Chaos Daughter if he had sent Priscilla to protect her? Was the bucket-helm with thorns making this guy deaf? Or perhaps he needed to scream it loud enough for the Darkwraith to hear? He was probably older than Argon by a few decades. Undead or not, age still catches up with you. He was sure of it.

"Maybe when you do come to this plain physically, you can pay her a visit." The undead murmured loud enough for Kirk to hear, and the thorned knight froze for a moment. Whether from shock or something else, only the wraith knew.

"What are you…" he trailed off and Argon sighed louder, making Laurentius frown at him in question.

"She not dead, idiot."

This time Kirk responded with as much movement as he could by lifting his head off the ground and _finally_ turning his gaze Argon's way.

"You mean you didn't-" he began but his words caught in his throat when he looked at Argon's uncovered face for the first time.

"...Lithecore?" He spoke as if all life had left his otherwise emotionless voice.

"Who?" Laurentius asked before he and Quelana turned Argon's way.

"Huh?"

Argon looked from the knight to his friends and back to Kirk again. This day was just one confusing bit of information to the next.

The wraith took another moment to stare at a confused Argon before he dropped back onto the floor and sighed out in what seemed like relief.

"I see."

"You see what?" Argon asked quite miffed as the Darkwraith began to laugh. He was being left out of the loop. Sure, his intellect was high, and he knew more than he let people believe he did, but this was just ridiculous. First the dumb Darkwraith didn't want to look at him because his deaf ears couldn't understand that he didn't kill Quelaan, then he did look at him after eventually believing him only to freeze up and call him a dumbass name that belonged to some old geezer. And _now_ he was acting all sagely, as if he had the very answer to why the undead curse was spread in the bloody first place.

This did it, Argon decided in his mind. He was done being nice to the freak in the porcupine dress-up that was always trying to kill him and claim his soul. He briefly remembered the day his mother had told him not to judge people and he hadn't, choosing instead to entertain the animal wannabe rather than laugh at him, but here he was being on the opposite end of the stick.

Argon reached into his side pouch, ready to pull out a black firebomb to blow this idiot's behind off when Kirk raised a shaky hand to rest on Argon's bent knee.

"Listen… arrogant knave." The undeads eye twitched. The wraith had just dug his own grave two feet deeper.

"Tell her, tell Quelaan I'll be back… soon." His red and black form began to shimmer, and Argon felt a pleasant rush of souls fill his body suddenly. He glanced down at Kirk and noticed his legs turn transparent. He had overstayed his welcome in this form.

"With those marks in your face, you could almost pass as him… without that glint however." Kirk mused and wrapped his finger's round the hilt resting in his hand.

"Thank you, undead." Argon's brows raised a fraction. Was the infamous Darkwraith actually _thanking_ him? This was a first. A singular, spectacular moment to behold. Perhaps he had been a little too hard on the annoying Thorny Knight?

"But your soul is still mine."

Nope, he was just over thinking it. There was no way Kirk deserved a shred of sympathy, he was still the same ball and chain fetish lover as always.

Laurentius and Quelana stared for a moment longer after the Darkwraith's body had dissipated, mind's both working in tandem to put together the pieces of this confusing puzzle. Quelana's brain worked on her frail sister whilst Laurentius cupped his chin and pondered on the Knight of Thorns, both carefully coming closer and closer to the sudden realization they couldn't quite reach yet.

Argon, for his part, was stretching his worn-out muscle's. That duel had been fun, even if he was about to lose it due to fatigue and other setbacks along the way - he imagined the event prior when Priscilla had frozen him against the wall out of anger - before shaking his head and retrieving his mask.

Kirk had mistaken him for someone by the name of Lithecroft, the oldest name he could have ever dreamed of in his opinion, that just personified the form of a raggedy old man with a few spokes loose in his head. Besides that, and the fact that he had been accused of killing a weak Daughter of Chaos - he had never even hurt a mindless undead in New Londo, he had just kicked him off the ledge, he swore - his mind travelled towards the fact that someone out there possibly resembled him. Maybe it was the abyssal corruption that made the wraith mistake him, surely, he wasn't the only undead suffering from a secondary curse that felt like the Plague on his skin.

Then again, if there were other undead with his condition, it meant that he would have to learn how to breathe underwater if he was going to purge the wraith's that plagued New Londo. Rickett had been extremely specific on why exactly he preferred to stay in that cage of his, a reason that didn't sit well with the undead after what he had already witnessed in Oolacile. He would have to hasten his movements. This world didn't have long.

"Perhaps he sought to claim my sister's soul as well as Argon's? He _is_ a Darkwraith and Quelaan's soul is purer than snow."

"I understand the reasoning but why would he lose his mind at the prospect of Argon slaying her if he also wanted her soul? Wouldn't he just claim it from Argon's fading corpse after he had slain him?" Laurentius shrugged his shoulders and crossed his arms.

"Hmm…" Quelana nodded in agreement and rested her back against his as they both pondered for a moment more, her hands clasped together in front of her as she thought.

"Perhaps Darkwraith Kirk desired to strike the killing blow on my sister and revel in her death?"

"That does sound like a sound answer but…"

"You have doubts?" She turned her head to the side slightly.

Laurentius nodded. "If he honored the requirements of his duel against Argon I wouldn't imagine him killing an innocent soul like your sister's so frivolously. From what I've seen it's not his style."

"Indeed. This is intriguingly perplexing, wouldn't you say?" The Izalith daughter asked in excitement, joy glimmering in her black eyes.

"Oh, I'd say so, my lady." The swamp-dweller answered back with a grin plastered across his face.

"Very perplexing indeed."

Argon's eye twitched again. He had stopped poking his fingers into his pouch to find his Hawk ring when he overheard the two whispering pyromancer's near him. They both stood upright, back's supporting one another as they sported looks of intense concentration on their faces like some pair of wayward detectives on the brink of discovering the motives of a serial killer. The undead had thought that Dragon Scholars were the worst when they delved into the complexities of their tomes and disintegrating scrolls but obviously he had been wrong. Damn pyromancer's and their insatiable nosey personalities.

"Ooh, wait! I've got it. What if Darkwraith Kirk was secretly in love with my sister and tricked his master into giving him an item capable of crossing dimensions and time just to see and help her when he could, seeing as the love of his life was on the verge of death with Blight?" Quelana asked in excitement.

The amber-eyed undead raised his brows so high they threatened to disappear into his scalp. How the hell had she come to _that_ conclusion after meeting him once and blasting his ass skyward?! These Chaos Sister's deserved more credit that he normally gave them. He fitted his mask against his face and smiled to himself. But they were still pretty messed up in the head. Did she realize she was talking about her sister's attempted murder? He couldn't wait to explain this to a certain cross breed.

_Priscilla's going to be just as shocked as I was. Oh, man, she's going to look so cute too. I can't wait…_

"I think your answer is flawed, my dear Quelana." Laurentius said, breaking the undead from fantasy land. His eyebrows came back to earth and furrowed at the pyromancer. That was _exactly _the answer they were looking for. How in the world was her answer flawed?

"You think so?" Quelana asked innocently and tapped a finger to her cheek in thought. "What have you discovered?"

"Darkwraith's may be undead but they don't feel attraction, do they? I mean… aren't they technically sex-less when they join the abyss?"

Argon slipped on the flat surface he was walking on and promptly face planted against the floor.

Both pyromancer's turned to see him twitching on the floor with his limb's raised and jutting out at odd angle's

"Argon!" They both shouted and rushed to his side.

"Are you okay, mate? That was a pretty bad fall." Laurentius said in worry and reached out to grasp the undeads arm.

"He's smitten for her, you freaking idiots!" Argon yelled and yanked his arm away from his friend. The two of them took a step back from Argon, shocked at his outburst before looking at each other blankly.

"There, you were right, Quelana. Happy now?" The undead grumbled at the two of them as they turned his way, jaws hanging in unbelief before they both shouted in unison.

"They're in **LOVE**?!"

Argon stared at the two of them as they began stuttering off question after question to one another about the 'who', 'why' and 'how' regarding said Darkwraith and Chaos Sister. The undead for his part, shook his head, sighed for the umpteenth time that day and walked toward the bell tower. He could leave these two lovebirds to act like the innocently naïve soul's they were as he returned to his patiently awaiting cross breed. He pulled out a Thief's light-vest from his inventory that was colored a moth brown. They had been down here for more than four hours now; the sun would have already gone down which meant she had shrunk down to a decent size - or so he hoped - to fit into the garments he had prepared for her. Personally, he wouldn't have minded handing her the ripped black leather set he had met her in but the fact that, number one, it was ripped to shreds; and number two, he didn't want anyone else to see her in attractive apparel besides himself, eventually outweighed his previous idea.

Just as he was about to reach the first step to the run-down tower, he caught a flash of black through the corner of his mask and turned around. His eyes eventually rested on something large and black and recognition crossed his gaze before he pocketed the garment, walked up to the item in question, and picked up the Spiked Shield Kirk had left behind in his defeat. Argon grasped the arm guard and held the shield up high enough that the dim light in the room cast a sheen on the spike's metal surface.

"Ooh, shiny."

* * *

Darkwraith Kirk fell out of the red portal he had been ejected from and crashed to the smooth obsidian floor, his armor ringing against the soft and hard surface under his weight. A tall figure near a dead bonfire stirred from his thoughts and turned to the Darkwraith Commander just before he ripped off his bucket-like helm and vomited a torrent blood that soaked the floor a vibrant crimson, despite the obvious blackness.

"I take it you _failed_ then?" Asked a raspy voice, the deep timbre mixing with the sound of nails scoring pathways against stone.

Kirk didn't respond and opted to continue heaving out the contents of his stomach as more blood poured out of the gashes in his armor. He knew the consequences of facing _that_ particular undead in his phantom effigy and had been prepared for the scars that would no doubt surface after their duel. What he had not been prepared for, however, was the assault of chaos fire by that cowardly witch. Even now as he continued to try and breathe, his scorched lungs burnt with the cool air it took in, making him gasp and his body go into shock.

The tall figure sighed and approached him, an emerald flask raised above Kirk's blood-covered mouth.

"I'll help you just this once. _Don't_ expect anything _more_ in future."

Kirk felt hot and cold liquid run into his mouth and down his chin. He gulped quickly and let out a deep sigh as his body repaired itself, the wounds stitching back together as the burns evaporated. His companion pulled the Estus flask away from Kirk as he rose to his knees and panted breathlessly. Never had he been more grateful than to drink that accursed fire.

"So, did you kill him?" The man with the flask asked. His body was dressed in the armor of a Black Knight and his face was covered by a black cowl, obscuring all features except the black veins covering the side of his face like a multitude of crooked hands.

The Darkwraith Commander scoffed. He always asked him that question as if the Knight of Thorns had been triumphant with all the cuts, wounds and blood on his body after another attempt to claim that undeads worthless life. He didn't understand why his Master desired such a broken soul that lacked too many fragments to make it whole but Kaathe had insisted on it, demanded it of him in fact. The Darkwraith hadn't argued and briefly pondered if it was the man's sheer battle instinct that caught the snake's attention. He had bested Kirk many times without more than a scratch on his person and wore his confidence on his sleeve like armor. It wouldn't be a surprise if that's what his Master was after, and yet, even so it still made no sense. There were so many perfect Darkwraith's already bound by Kaathe's covenant that could topple a country in days. He wouldn't require another foot soldier like Argon.

"Why do you care so much?"

The Darkwraith in front of Kirk shrugged boredly and moved to sit back down at the dead bonfire.

"It's just _interesting_… he's the first undead to _best_ you in combat." The way he curled his tongue when he spoke reminded Kirk of a serpent like Kaathe. Maybe his brother? His master had said that his family was vast.

"I'll end him next time." Kirk growled and removed his armor piece by piece, leaving him in torn tunic and trousers as he sat down on the obsidian floor that softly writhed underneath him. He hated when it did that, it made him feel queasy.

"You lost your shield as well."

"I know."

"Master will not be _pleased_."

"He won't."

"_Well, _what are you going to _do_ then?"

"For now…" Kirk looked up at the hooded man, his red eye's lingering on the black veins and amber eye's that occasionally flashed at him from behind that ugly cowl.

"...I rest. Repair my armor and tell the other wraiths to double their watch."

"Of _course,_ Commander." The man said and cackled loudly. The sound grated against Kirk's eardrum's painfully.

"After our _conquest_ in Darkroot our numbers have spread _thin_. I will warn the other's _not_ to _slack off_…" he rose again and turned to walk off, boots clapping against the soft and hard floor like a giant blacksmith smiting a sword.

"And Lithecroft." The Darkwraith turned his covered head and stared at Kirk for a moment before lowering the hood.

"_Yes?_"

"What is it you find so intriguing about this particular undead filth?"

Lithecroft's mouth split into an eerie smile as his long, black hair blanketed his pale cheeks like an unholy veil. There it was, that flash of madness Kirk had spoken of before. The disturbing true nature of his second in command, Lithecroft in all his sadistic glory.

"Can't you _tell_ just by _looking_ at us? He's the _white _to my _monochrome_. The _sword _to my _shield, _the _right_ to my _left._ I wouldn't expect you to… _understand_. You haven't experienced a familial bond, now _have you?_"

Kirk didn't reply and the Darkwraith cackled again at his silence before turning on his heel and walking off, the blackness of the room enveloping him until nothing else was visible by darkness.

_No, it's not familial… that much I can tell._

* * *

**I do apologize for the extremely long wait. I think it took me two weeks to write this. I had to re-write the entire thing after picking up on details about Darkwraith Kirk I only discovered recently, I am very sorry.**

**A big thank you to VaatiVidya (although he won't be able to read this praise since he doesn't know me from a bar of soap) for his in-depth explanation on the finer facts of each character in SoulsBorne and Sekiro, I had a blast learning more and more about a franchise I love to death. I'm even more ecstatic to hear that FromSoftware will be releasing a new game called _Elden Ring_. Check out the trailer, it's heart-racingly amazing.**

**In terms of this chapter, it officially ends the Izalith Arc until I re-center the story on Laurentius, which will be much, much later.**

**Quelaan has been healed, Quelana knows her sister is alive, Priscilla won't be wearing black leather (I think) and we found out Darkwraith Argon's name, wee!**

**Lithecroft… is not the best name I could have come up with, but you'll understand why I chose it as the story progresses. **

**I will do my best to upload soon and even though I probably messed up a few important parts of this chapter with all the stop and go progress I've made on it, I still hope you all enjoyed it, thank you for reading.**

**Please do R and R(this ain't funny fan , give me back my ampersand… please!), I'd love to hear your opinions both positive and critical - I enjoy flames that have a purpose to correct my writing - as well as any ideas you might have or suggestions for future chapters, like an OVA set once I finish this story (hey, that's not a bad idea) so please talk to me if you do want to share your thoughts.**

**Please enjoy the remainder of your morning/midday/afternoon/evening/and midnight. Happy belated Valentine's Day as well for those that celebrate it (no, I'm not that into it, but maybe that'll change after I meet somebody… wait, what the hell am I talking about? I'm loving single life right now.)**

**Thank you and God bless!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Wow… I knew I had some grammatical and punctuational errors in my story but after finally finding the time to read them myself after publication… wow.**

**I truly apologize for all those mistakes and thank you guys for still reading my fic. This is embarrassing but I will do my best to edit every chapter so that it will hold no error in the future! (*Proud salute)**

**Anyways, onto a more important note…**

**HOLY MOLY, RAVENSOUL'S JUST GAVE ME A REVIEW!!!!**

**Ahem! Sorry about that, just really excited is all.**

**-you're acting like a fanboy.**

**I am not!**

**-it's perfectly fine. Just try not to creep the rest of us out in the process.**

**I thought you'd be leaving after the battle with Kirk and Argon? Why are you still here?**

**-you don't want me to be here? I suppose it will get you to stop making these author's note's so long if I do depart...**

**Are you done philosophizing?**

**-that… doesn't make any sense(idiot)**

**I heard that!**

**-but yes, I will be leaving.**

**Yippee for me (*air punch)**

**-however, I WILL be dropping by every now and again, just to make sure you're not corrupting the minds of our reader's.**

**Whatever you say Illogical me. Now… onto the story!**

* * *

The air was substantially cooler down in the Darkroot Basin. The tree's above fed by the sun's bountiful rays grew thrice the size of houses which blocked all light from traversing its lower levels. The moss and fungi that sprouted on the inclined walkways and cliff's grew in abundance that covered the moist earth with a lush green. Along the slopes of the Basin, where tall Ent's stood ever watchful, bloomed delicate flowers that shone with brilliant light to show the way as multitudes of fireflies decorated the air like sparkling jewelry for the lower forest to wear.

At the last level of the great expanse of rock and moss stood a lake untroubled by the war's and scourge up above. Here in the quiet space of few trees and a roaring waterfall, tranquility reigned. The waters of the lake sparkled like polished diamonds on the surface, whilst the crystalline monster's that stood like garrison's over its beautiful waters stared unblinkingly at their surroundings. They weren't concerned with the problems of hollow's, undead and god's; being empty shells of crystal that sought to capture maiden's that would never be seen again in that ancient land.

Indeed, their priorities set out by Seath himself commanded them to scout for more of the fairer sex. Where they found lone women, they would apprehend them within their massive bodies of blue for safe transit to the Duke's Archives. What would await those yelling, screaming, wailing and terrified maidens afterward was not a problem for the crystal beasts. For how does an empty shell know what it is to grieve? To feel remorse, guilt, regret or pain; when it's only purpose of creation was to steal and spirit away beings full of life? Perhaps in containing these maiden's they felt but a sliver of what it was to be alive. To be whole. To be complete…

However, now they all stood motionless. After centuries had passed when the Great Lord had set off to relink the Flame, what maidens remained to be captured? The halls of Anor Londo, both upper and lower levels, lay empty after years and _years _of abandonment. The streets were clotted with waves of dust and the only sound that escaped the haunted domain was the whistling of the cold wind, unbothered by the happenings of the living world.

These bodies of crystal that dotted the dying kingdom of Lordran stood mindlessly stationary. Their creator had become mad from his own machinations already, forgetting they had even existed to begin with. Without a master to order their steps and command their movement, they stood like old statues of a time long forgotten.

They were almost docile. _Almost_ being the key word, for whist they had no master or orders to follow, they didn't have a problem trying to tear the Chosen Undead a new one every time he passed one by.

It was as if there was a target painted red on Argon's back that drew more and more of these annoying blue behemoths' his way. It wasn't like he _wanted_ to fight them, certainly not after they had broken his favorite Zweihander that one time and ganged up on him when he fought that ugly hydra the other time. He truly hated those mindless hunks of fancy rock with a passion.

People had argued that he somehow instigated a fight with them unintentionally. Argon didn't understand how _walking_ passed one would do such a thing. These creeps wanted to smash him to a pulp, he just wanted to smash _hollows_ to a pulp. Maybe it was a whole matter of the food-chain or something? He couldn't wrap his head around it. Right now, he was too busy trying not to turn around as his tailed companion bathed in the cool water the Basin contained.

After their fight with Darkwraith Kirk, Argon and Priscilla had updated Laurentius and Quelana on the happenings of the previously dying Fair Lady, and how exactly she had come to be healed. To say that the normally passive Chaos Sister had burst into first emotion would have been an understatement. She had flung her arms around Argon and nearly squeezed all the breath out of his tired lungs. Who knew a tiny woman like her could possess a grip so fierce? The undead silently prayed for his bearded friend's health, he would need it when he and Quelana grew in their relationship. She was damn _strong._

Argon and Priscilla had then departed from Blighttown, wishing their two allies' good luck before the masked undead had suggested that they take a moment to rest in a place… more relaxing than a destroyed shrine or a blacksmith's workshop. The idea had come to Argon quickly. The Darkroot Basin was the perfect place to lay low and take a breather from the scratches from death they had previously encountered. He wouldn't have chosen the Garden above because of the painful scars it had etched into his heart, so the Basin was the next best thing.

The soft sound of splashing water broke the undead from these thoughts as he turned his head towards the waterfall. The goddess' eyes had brightened like gold pine resin when he had led them to the beautiful lake. She had been so excited, in fact, that she had squealed loudly, dropped her scythe and sped off like a happy puppy towards the glittering streaks of water.

He couldn't blame her. The time they had all spent in that swamp had not only dirtied their clothing but left a stench on their bodies so putrid, even the Ent's they passed on their way down avoided them, the stupid hunks of wood. A cold bath was exactly what they were looking for.

Argon's eye's shone like small pools of flame in the darkened area as he watched his companion disappear into the white wall of liquid. She had _finally _stopped shrinking when they reached Darkroot Basin, and now stood a few good inches shorter than him, a height most human women weren't normally blessed with. He had pondered on why for a goddess, she hadn't stopped shrinking at twice his height like all the other god's he had encountered thus far but said nothing about it to her. He wasn't complaining about her stature in the slightest. In fact, he would go as far to say that this size suited her perfectly.

He turned his head back to the tree's in front of him, where the bodies of slain crystalline beast's lay prone and lifeless - if they had any life to begin with - and sighed contently. It was peaceful down here, so much so that he had felt compelled to remove his mask and rest the weapons that usually hung on his back. There hadn't been many moments whereby he had the luxury of relaxation, and to stand here away from all that his fate had entailed so far felt like a nice change of pace.

The fact that Gwyndolin, Frampt and that brass-clad Keeper had lied to him made his chest constrict tightly. He had thought he was being noble. Assumed that taking on Oscar's dying request had been his way to redeem himself from the past he tried so hard to escape. Every undead he had come across, from the bored fellow in chainmail to the last Berenike undead that was slowly losing his sanity had warned him. They had all said that this was a means to an end, that what he was doing was madness. Argon wasn't a fool in any regard, he had seen the fallen bodies of hollowed undead, both male and female. He had taken the items from their corpses to strengthen himself… to survive.

He put pieces of broken puzzles together as he conversed with people and intelligent beast alike. He knew that what he was doing was suicide, but he hadn't cared. He had _wanted_ to prove everyone wrong. Whether for the sake of his manhood or because he needed a reason to exist, he didn't know for sure, but he had rung both bells' anyway.

He had suffered, died too many times to count and seen horror's no ordinary man would come back from. He had killed innocent being's too, and the guilt of his sin's stung like bitter tears in his eyes. He was destined to reach Anor Londo, Solaire and many others had helped him in that regard, but in doing all that meaningless fighting and bloodshed, he had also discovered the dark truth the god's of Lordran had kept secret.

Linking the Flame meant prolonging the suffering of undead like him just so that what little of the god's remained in this world could reign longer. It sickened him to think that he had been like a mindless drone, killing foe after foe but not realizing the truth. Priscilla, Quelaag, Anastasia, Laurentius, Solaire, and even Logan. They were all made to suffer because of the selfishness of Gwyn and his kin. He was no bringer of Light to Argon; his life wouldn't have been this hard if that was so. No, the God of Light only existed to vacillate his strength. To dominate the feeble and weaker race that was humanity. He was no god, but a devil in white and gold clothing.

Argon knew he couldn't link the Flame, even after slaying Gwyn. Yet at the same time he couldn't allow it to burn out either. He knew there was always a darkness where light existed, the Abyss and Artorias were proof of that. He couldn't allow it to spread to the world.

He sighed again, raising a hand to ruffle his black hair and lean against Priscilla's scythe. He wouldn't be able to make any decisions now of all times, he was too exhausted to think clearly. Instead, he took a moment to admire the weapon of his companion.

The Lifehunt scythe. A weapon deemed as blasphemous for the fact that it possessed the power to kill a god. A power greater than Occultic magic, the goddess Velka's specialty. He had felt the pull that Velkian rapier had on him. It was surreal. Inviting. Almost sinful to bask in. The power that surged from its hilt to the tip of the blade shone like black fire in a white clearing. With that blade, he felt indomitable, untouchable by the forces of man. A feeling he feared and sought for at the same time.

Yet when he held this scythe of Priscilla's, it felt completely different. As soon as his fingers touched the oaken shaft, he felt his body being attacked by poisons, toxins, curses and the strange sense of his life being drained from him all at once. Then after a few moments it all disappeared like it had never been there to begin with. He assumed that was because it was a drawback of being human, but still couldn't put his finger on it.

Argon hefted the scythe in his arm's, it was heavy, but he would manage the weight. The blade gleamed wickedly in the darkness and he had the strange feeling that if he used it, the consequences wouldn't be pretty. He relaxed his arm and rested the weapon against the damp earth. Perhaps it's care and use would be better suited for Priscilla anyways. Besides, Argon never did like using scythes. They required too much dexterity if you missed the first swing.

"Argon." Priscilla's voice called out to him and he turned his head towards the waterfall. He waited a moment but still couldn't see her anywhere. He frowned and got up from the rock he was currently sitting on.

"Argon." Her voice called to him again and the undead swiveled his head to search for the cross breed.

_This is odd. I could swear she sounded like she was a few feet away from me. Where could she-_

"Argon!" A shout rang against his right ear and he let out a shocked yelp, jumping back but losing his footing. Time seemed to speed up as his head hit the soft ground with a softer thud.

"What the…" he started when his companion's laughter broke through the silence, her voice like little bell's tinkling in the wind.

"Oh… I see now," Argon grinned and stood up. "You think that's funny, do 'ya?"

Her laughter continued, and Argon turned his head toward a nearby tree where it sounded like her laughter originated from. It looked like he was rubbing off on her more than he thought. The Priscilla he had rescued from the Painted World all those days ago would never have been this playful.

The undead slouched his shoulders and bent over to collect a handful of moist sand. She would probably freeze him for this, but he didn't care. She had begun this act of war and he would be the one to finish it.

"Well fine. If you want to hide, my mud-ball of seeking will just have to…" he took aim a giggling tree and cocked his arm back before hurling it forward.

"Find you!"

His projectile landed on its mark with a satisfying _slap_ and a triumphant smirk appeared on his face when he heard her gasp from the sudden counterattack.

"A-A-Ah! **Cold**!"

It was Argon's turn to laugh as the cross breed's illusionary magic faded and her pouting face emerged, previously braided hair splayed out around her like a snow-white mane.

"That was unfair, Argon. I just bathed!"

"Serves you right. You spook an undead and you get the mud b-" his amber eye's widened as a blush dusted his cheeks and he turned his head away from her.

"Argon?" Priscilla asked when he didn't finish his sentence.

"What is the matter?"

"H-Here's a better question, where exactly is your gown?" His voice cracked as he spoke, and the goddess frowned in confusion before looking down at herself.

She was clad in nothing more than her undergarments and the mud Argon had thrown at her that covered what it could of her large chest.

Priscilla burned a deep scarlet and squealed, covering what she could of her modesty with her arms. She had thought she had donned her torn gown before she had left the water. She had left her chest bindings on a rock to dry when the idea of scaring the otherwise unflappable undead had popped into her head. She felt like dying on the spot right then and there. For Argon, her companion, her _savior,_ to see her scantily-dressed and _exposed_ of all things was the worst embarrassment she could have ever imagined possible.

She had only planned on having a bit of harmless fun, not putting herself on display for him gawk at! If he hadn't been spooked enough by her earlier prank, he was _certainly_ shocked now. Her body quivered both from the embarrassment and cold she felt as goosebumps rippled across her arms, legs and tummy.

She felt like such an idiot. How would the undead think of her now that he had literally _seen_ all of her?! What was even more embarrassing was that he at least had the decency to avert his eye's and announce her state of undress. It was terrible to be caught in a situation like this with a pervert that stared; but it was even **_worse_ **to be caught bare by a gentleman of all men. Oh, how she wished she had never listened to her stupid brain and left the waterfall barely dressed. She imagined that gown of hers had long flowed down stream, far away from her grasp. It was punishment for her actions, she supposed.

"U-Um… maybe you should dry off." His voice broke her from berating herself and she turned a darker shade of red as he lifted a pair of clothes from his inventory.

"You'll catch cold if you keep standing there like a statue."

"A-Ah y-yes…" she replied meekly and took stiff steps towards his outstretched arm as cold droplets of water dribbled down her thigh's, making her shiver further. She risked a look at his face. It was still turned away from his body and she sighed gratefully before accepting the clothing he offered. He was many things, but she was glad that he wasn't an ill-bred man at least.

_Ohh! He must think I'm so vulgar now, he must have seen **everything**. This is just terrible! No! No, no, no, no, no!_

"T-Thank you." She said and ran behind the same tree she stood at previously to change.

"Sure! No problem." He laughed out awkwardly. That accidental flash of skin had burned itself into his memory. A sight, he agreed was the opposite of terrible, but he wished would escape from the confines of his over-active imagination. Although he hadn't seen much, he doubted the picture of her white underwear would leave his mind any time soon.

_Damn you fate!_

"And don't worry! I didn't see… much."

He heard her squeak in response and cursed his lack of a better explanation. His brain had just shut down after witnessing such long, creamy leg-

**_Stooop!_ **_Stop you traitorous fiend! You're an undead now, undead don't react to hormones… I think._

"A-And anyways, I looked away as soon as your illusion wore off, so I didn't really get the chance to see a lot."

He didn't know whether to feel like an idiot for making it sound worse, or guilty because he had seen more than he had intended to. He admitted that being honest was the best way to deal with this situation quickly; but telling her that he had gotten the perfect view of her private areas was like the final nail in the coffin. He didn't want to make her feel worse that she already did. It was an accident after all.

"So, for the meantime, take your time getting dressed. I'll, um…" he was running out of words as his brain slowed to a snail's pace.

_Dammit, not you **too** brain!_

He quickly looked around their surroundings to search for something, _anything_ to occupy his time when his eyes found the lake to his left.

"The lake! Yes, I need to clean myself off too, don't it? And you haven't eaten anything for a while… I know! I'll catch some fish for you to eat, you must be starving!" He blurted out and immediately dashed for the glittering waters, not caring about equipping his Rusted-Iron Ring or disrobing as he dived headfirst into the dark pool and swam like his life depended on it.

* * *

Priscilla stayed where she was, body propped up against the moss-covered tree with knees bent even after her companion had left in a hurry. The clothing he had gifted to her was pressed against her front, covering her modesty from the air itself as she attempted to get over her embarrassment.

Argon had said that he hadn't seen an awful lot of her bare skin, but she still couldn't get a grip on her emotions or thoughts at all. The very fact that he had _seen_ her was enough to stun her to eternal silence, and the final nail in the coffin was that she hadn't even _known_ she was naked. Of all the dumbest mistakes she could have ever made in her life, why in the world did she have to flash the _one_ man she did her best to respect the most?!

The goddess moaned in defeat and curled in on herself.

She had really done it this time. Now they would always have this awkward silence around the two of them because of her idiotic mistake. Although Argon - being Argon - would most likely do his best to cheer her up and act like everything was alright, she knew he had also been affected by what happened. He had stuttered like a pubescent boy and found the first opportunity to avoid a drawn-out scenario.

While it was the perfect decision to make, it would also make things more difficult to converse with him now that there was an obvious cross breed in the room that needed addressing. Priscilla's mind switched to worry-mode as she thought about the undead.

Would he confront her about it when he returned, or would he choose to pretend like it never happened and unintentionally cause an unseen barrier to rise between the two of them? He was known to act indifferent on many occasions as a front to his true feelings, so would he act like that and further block her out? What about what he thought of her? He had blushed red as the setting sun. Did he like what he saw? Did he _hate _what he saw?! Was she too thin for his liking? Maybe he favored smaller-chested woman like Quelaan over her… wait, why was she comparing the two? Was she jealous?!

Priscilla sighed out loudly and closed her eyes. She allowed the sound of the wind and the roar of the waterfall to calm her senses. After a few deep breaths, she rose to her feet, dusting off the wet sand from her body as she did so, and peeked out from the side of the tree.

Argon was nowhere in sight.

She quickly padded back towards the waterfall, hopping over a fallen mass of crystal in the process before approaching her now dry chest bindings.

Whatever he decided to do was up to him now. What happened happened. She was just grateful he hadn't acted like a dumbfounded idiot and stood there blankly, or worse, fainted on the spot after seeing her. That would have really destroyed her self-esteem. All she could do now was act normally. While trying not to lose her cool. When he would probably arrive soaked in water with transparent clothing.

She sighed again. This was going to be difficult.

After taking the time to properly secure her now clean chest binding's around herself, she held up the set of clothing Argon had given her. It was thick and looked slightly comfortable to wear, she would just need to create a small hole for her tail to slip through the trousers.

She frowned and took a closer look at the garment, it seemed oddly familiar but just she couldn't pin-point the reason why. She was about to put it down so that she could try on the trousers first, when her nose caught a pleasant aroma.

She sniffed the air once. The scent was faint. She craned her neck and sniffed again. The scent grew fainter.

The cross breed huffed in annoyance and stuck out her bottom lip. She _knew_ that smell somehow and knew it well. Why on earth couldn't she recognize who or what it belonged to? With a determined look on her face, she sniffed the air a few more times, catching the stray scent repeatedly. Sometimes it was close and then it was far away. She became frustrated as time ticked on until she stopped dead, tail stopping it's wagging momentarily.

Priscilla gazed at the garment in her hands and brought it to her face before taking a small sniff, a small dusting of pink on her face.

Immediately her tail shot up a like petrified animal and her emerald orb's glinted in recognition, her blush intensifying considerably. She had finally found it, the scent that had evaded her capture for so long.

She closed her eyes and pressed the fabric completely against her face as she inhaled deeply. A delightful shiver sped down her spine and she sighed throatily.

She never knew such a lovely scent even existed until she had met him. What a pleasure it was to know your new favorite aroma belonged to your favorite person.

Priscilla blushed scarlet and squealed into the garment.

"I'm hopeless…"

* * *

In a word, Argon imagined the lake he swam in as purifying. It washed away his worries, aches, pains - and in a way, his sins - as he delved deep into the depths of the Basin. His breathing-control wasn't as bad as he had thought it would be as his legs pounded against the slowly flowing current. The faint light pierced through the surface of the water, allowing him to see the fish that lazily swam underneath him. Silver, dark blue and white schools brought a torrent of bubble's that brushed against Argon's arms and chest as he followed them. He fished a throwing knife from his pouch and stabbed downward, impaling a medium sized ocean-dweller and storing it in his inventory before breaking to the surface.

He gasped air deeply into his lungs and plunged back down, catching another scaly bugger and stuffing it into his bottomless box before powering forward. His arms and legs swiped water away like a frog as he swam on, enjoying the peace this other world offered as he watched pockets of circular air rush out from his nose like soul's floating to whatever Heaven existed after death.

He was glad he could freely traverse these depths, that hydra had almost taken up all the space possible when he had first come down here. Its gargantuan body had sat like a stopper on a glass vial previously, and Argon had certainly not enjoyed fishing out the bloodied scale's and body part's it had left behind when fleeing his barrage of flame-tipped arrows.

That day - after dying to a halberd-wielding Black Knight, three Crystalline beast's _and _a blast of scalding water - Argon had finally managed to climb atop a sturdy bridge above the waterfall and sever a few of the atrocious monster's heads. It was a victory that had caused the wildlife here in the Basin to flourish from its state of near-extinction.

That hydra had been destroying this forest's inhabitants, who know how much it had to eat before it was satisfied. A table for eight wasn't always that accommodating in a small eatery after all.

As the thought left his mind like another of those silvery bubble's, Argon broke to the surface again. A gentle smile found its way onto his features. He wouldn't have been able to swim like this if he had been wearing armor. Thank goodness he chose to don the uniform of those painting guardians.

He peddled his leg's around and crossed to the other side of the lake with ease, using more force to push himself up onto a nearby shore that was slightly submerged. He stood from the shore, slouching as his clothes hung on him heavily soaked. The swim had been relaxing, calming and a good place to gather his thoughts.

His smile faltered, however, when he turned his head and realized where he was standing. The deep cave before him curved sideways like a traveling snake as its dead end stood with a glowing summon sign, ancient letters of a forgotten alphabet scrawled out in black and light yellow.

It belonged to Princess Dusk.

The undead hadn't known what to think when he had broken that golden beast of crystal to piece's and found the maiden trapped inside, her face one of relief when she saw him. Argon's encounter with her, with that broken talisman had been the reason he was brought to Oolacile that day. The reason he had slain Artorias, braved the Abyss, slain Manus and acquired this putrid infection of his.

That happy mushroom had been oblivious to his pain and suffering when he had returned, only thinking about that annoying princess that got herself into more trouble than she was worth. Yet he hadn't said a word about it, especially after encountering Gough in that sealed tower and learning more of that corrupted land.

The agony he had felt after slaying the knight he faintly remembered looking up to for so long made his heart bleed. The fact that he, another mindless undead, had taken the shell of a life that was once Lordran's pride had crippled his mind and cracked his soul.

He couldn't return to that ugly kingdom, he wouldn't. That annoying princess could go to hell with waiting if she ever thought he would waste his time returning. Her only ploy was to keep him locked in Oolacile to fawn over his every movement. He knew of her growing admiration for him after saving her a second time and honestly, it sickened him. She had already tried to bait him into staying by using Kalameet as an excuse. He had nearly accepted it too were it not for that traitorous Chester that opened his eyes with those ambiguous words of his. He was at least glad for a final favor from the skilled merchant before he had finally departed and never looked back.

With a small sigh, Argon turned on his heel and walked along the shore towards the waterfall. He wouldn't be seeing Dusk again, or Gough for that matter. He had his own life to live now.

At that thought, his cross-breed companion entered his mind and he blushed slightly, choosing to wring out the water from his clothing as a distraction. He still needed to figure out a way to break the ice between them after that… encounter of theirs. She would obviously still be embarrassed about what happened and he didn't want a small mistake like that to pull her away from him completely.

As much as he teased and messed with her, he knew she was the only thing stopping him from losing his mind and going hollow. Her presence was soothing to him, and her words gave him the courage he needed to stand up again.

With another sigh, he combed a hand through his wet hair and thought of a way to approach this in the best way possible. This was Priscilla he was taking about. With the things the two of them had been through thus far, this little awkward situation wouldn't be a trifle to deal with. He just needed to find the right words.

_Maybe I could use the fish I caught to ease everything out?_

"Most people tend to relax after a good meal. Perhaps that will help her to break out of that embarrassment?"

He tapped his chin as he continued walking. He could make out the white foam of the waterfall crashing onto the stone below from where he stood.

_Should I just pretend like it didn't happen? Maybe she'd appreciate that if didn't say anything more to embarrass her?_

He shook his head adamantly at that thought rather quickly.

_No, then it would be too awkward for me to act normally around her._

He furrowed his brow as he neared the waterfall. It was at least a hundred meters away now.

_I know! I'll just make a joke about it and move on. It'll cost me a frosting to the face but it's worth a shot!_

With that, the undead happily hummed as he made his way near the waterfall. He could make out Priscilla from her undone white hair and waved from a far to her, holding up the haul he had caught in one hand.

_This will be fine. A joke, some fish and a new pair of clothing will sort this problem out right away… wait, what clothing did I hand her anyways? I didn't think about it when I pulled it out of my box._

The image of the nude cross breed had electrocuted his mind to numbness so powerful he would have fainted from blood loss if he stared a moment longer. She had been dripping with water, the small slivers of light illuminating her alabaster skin like china. She had looked truly divine to him in that moment and he was loathe to deny it.

Still… he also agreed that if he saw her naked again, he would most definitely faint. It wasn't like he hadn't seen a woman naked before. He faintly recalled seeing one when he was human, but then again, comparing a cross breed goddess to a human maiden were two very different things. Seeing such beauty up close was breathtaking. Seeing that beauty scantily clad, blushing and soaking _wet_ was a firebomb to his racing heart.

"Argon?" He heard her voice call out and he smiled. Whatever the case may be, she was still his friend. His companion. They would be just fine no matter the circumstances. He just trusted her so much that he had no reason for doubt.

"Over here, you wouldn't believe the size of the fish I caught! You're gonna have a feast toni-" his breath caught in his throat and his eye's widened.

_No, no, no… please don't tell me I gave her THAT set of armor._

Priscilla appeared from around the falling water, smiling softly at him with the same blush across her cheeks. She looked beautiful indeed, but that wasn't why Argon stood flabbergasted.

The breath left his lungs with a dull rasp and his jaw hit the floor.

_Oh hell._

The black leather Priscilla wore hugged her body like a glove. From where he stood he noticed how the laced bodice framed the curves of her chest and hips, amplifying her voluptuousness to a degree that made Argon's throat dry up. Her slim waist looked as if his arms could wrap comfortably around them, and as she walked towards him the undead couldn't help but notice how slender and _long_ her legs looked.

He hadn't given her gloves or boots to wear so when he noticed the sharp contrast of the Velkian garb's black leather and her creamy skin tone and luscious white hair, he promptly lost all sense of logic as he tried to speak.

"Aooohhh."

"Pardon me. What was that?" She asked, cute face furrowed in confusion as she absently stroked the scales on the back of her hand.

"E-Err… nothing important." Argon replied, unintentionally squeaking and making her giggle into her hand.

He swallowed and tried to focus. He could do this, it wasn't difficult. Undead weren't affected by hormones, remember?

"A-Anyways, about what happened before…" he trailed off. Priscilla blushed shyly and nodded for him to continue.

"W-Well we can't undo what was done, right?"

She nodded again.

"And I already said I didn't see much so…" he watched as she bit her lower lip in anticipation and he gulped again. Those were very plush lips. He steeled himself. He could do this, no worries.

"... So, let's just keep on moving forward, alright?" He forced his usual cheeriness into his voice for emphasis and smiled so wide his eyes had to close.

Silence ensued for a moment before…

"I agree." She said, and he opened his eyes. She was smiling that beautiful smile at him again. His legs were beginning to grow weak.

"Thank you, Argon!" She said, bouncing back on her heels as she placed her hands behind her back.

Time stopped and the undeads eyes grew to the size of gargoyle shields as his gaze was drawn to her sizable asset's that bounced with her body like a mass of humanity sprite's.

He couldn't stop himself from looking. He didn't mean to either, his eyes just went there! While this was all going on, he could have sworn they hadn't looked _that_ big when she was wearing that gown of hers. Was it because her gown was magical or something? If so, that was some _damn_ good magic.

The orbs cased in onyx lifted into the air before gravity pushed them back into place, making them jiggle slightly. The sight was the last thing Argon saw before the dam in his head burst.

"Um, Argon?"

"Wha?"

"Your nose is bleeding. Are you okay?"

"It is? How pecul… iar."

"You're swaying from side to side. Maybe you should rest."

"Resssst… yeahhhh."

"Argon? Argon!"

That was the last thing the Chosen Undead heard before he promptly fainted from too much blood loss.

_Damn you fate and hormones… _

* * *

A small fire crackled near a tree in the Darkroot Basin as two figures sat in silence. Priscilla, clothed in Velkian leather - and the boots that came with it - crouched in front of the orange flames, reveling in its warmth. A smile adorned her features as the fish Argon had caught roasted on thin stick's. The atmosphere had grown more comfortable after the undead had come to, and they had begun to converse casually while waiting for the meat to cook.

Argon, for his part, sat across from her with his back turned. While in the process of waiting, he had tugged off the baggy guardian shirt so that the warmth of the fire could dry him off. Priscilla had raised a solution that he could just conjure a flame from his pyromancy glove as it would be quicker, but the undead had simply shushed her, stating that doing thing's the traditional way was more fun sometimes. She hadn't argued further on the matter. Why would she when they rarely had the chance to relax like this? Besides, a shirtless Argon was a guilty pleasure she wouldn't pass up for the world.

The light from the fire showered the small clearing of trees with a warm glow, almost akin to the many bonfire's the two had already traversed. However, this felt vastly different from the hot finger's that coiled around that rusted sword. This fire wasn't funneled by the power of a Keeper, it's sparks weren't tainted by the soul's so many undead had channeled into it.

No, this flame was personal, a shared pleasure between the two that had made it. To the cross breed, it almost felt homely, if such a thing were even possible in a land brimming with despair.

She averted her hungry eyes from the skewered fish to gaze at Argon, wiping the drool from the corners of her mouth in the process. She was just _really _hungry.

The flames made his pale skin glow golden and she paid close attention to how the shadows of the Basin contoured the muscles on his back and shoulder's, like a carpenter working on a masterpiece. His hands were moving as she watched him. He was probably mending the broken equipment he had with the repair powder he purchased long ago. Another gentle smile graced her lips. His habit of overworking himself had become commonplace for her these days. Wherever they went, he would always be tinkering with one thing or another, and his mind was an endless maze of thought's that never stopped for rest.

She had known him to think three steps ahead of time and would listen intently as he would suddenly explain things to her, absentmindedly describing the nature of his plans. About how they would work, what his idea on the subject was and how well it would benefit them should his efforts pay off. Argon was like great inventor to her, puzzling about and attempting every solution he thought of until he was satisfied. It was intriguing to watch.

She hadn't asked him how he knew so much - previously being a human with a short lifespan - and he had never mentioned how or where he had acquired such knowledge. He had once said that the memories of his past were clouded in fog, so she hadn't forced the issue, but her interest in him still grew.

There had been many human's she had encountered over the centuries while in the Painted World. All of them had been tested by the inhabitants of her previous home and had shown their true color's eventually. She disliked their greed, insatiable lust for power and deranged need for humanity. She had even begun to conform to the mindset of all god's when the topic of humans and undead were brought up. Her eyes had just seen too much of the same common symptoms to trust the weaker race.

That was before the Xanthous King had arrived, however.

He was stranger than the one's before him and spoke in an accent so parallel to the other's, that she had thought he was a creature with human intelligence. Who wouldn't when regarding his silky yellow turban that looked like it weighed more than he did?

He had been the first to gaze at her form and speak before raising his weapon. Instead of the lust for soul's and power, he had sought friendship, a concept she hadn't been able to understand at first. She had hesitated, not replied to his questions and tensed when he arrived in that phantasmic form, ready to use her scythe.

But the undead had simply laughed, disarming her with conversation. He had been the one to explain the unpredictable behavior of humans and the frailness of their minds when pushed too far. Priscilla had understood them on a closer level because of Jeremiah. It was the reason she had begun to give them the opportunity to leave first, the reason she spoke to them in kinder words than the other gods had ever conversed in.

In that time, the ridiculously-clothed undead had also told her about the very few humans to look out for especially. The one's that faced troubles with confidence, although their legs shook with fear. The one's that laughed in the face of death, although they had nothing left to be happy about. And of course, the humans whose heart's bled for others pain, whilst they ignored the pain they suffered themselves.

When she looked at Argon, Jeremiah's words resonated clearly with the charismatic undead. She knew in her heart that this was the human she needed to be close to the most. For the one's that carried the weight of the world on their shoulders were the one's frailer than the rest. A simple push would be all it would take to make them crumble to dust, a truth she did her best to protect him against.

Argon may be the Chosen Undead to all Lordran. Her uncle and Frampt may have placed unwarranted trust and burdens on his smaller body that he would no doubt carry out and accomplish, but he was not invincible.

She knew how he suffered, how he moaned from the nightmare's he dreamt each night or struggled to stand up when the fatigue of this world weighed him down. It was because she loved him so deeply that she understood his pain. It wasn't easy to live day-to-day knowing you couldn't remember your past, or that the only thing you did remember was betrayal and torture.

He sighed out in satisfaction as the sword he was mending was brought back to pristine condition. His eye's locked onto hers as he turned around and he smiled. She returned the smile and gazed at the deep bags under his eye's. How long had he gone from his time entering Lordran without a proper night's rest?

She traced the black veins on the right side of his face with her attentive sight, before resting on the scar above his heart. How much did being undead really hurt him? He never voiced his pain because he didn't want anyone to bother with his well-being. Was he really fine with being so alone like this?

"I think that the fish should be ready about now." He said, and she blinked, broken from thinking further. With tentative finger's she picked up a skewer from the edge of the fire and lifted it to her nose.

The smell of cooked meat was making her stomach rumble impatiently and without waiting for it to cool, she opened her mouth, canines flashing and chomped down on the fish.

Argon felt the corners of his mouth turn upwards as her tail slapped against the ground happily. That must be one tasty fish he caught.

_Man, I wish I could eat…_

He watched her devour fish after fish from the fire. Her eating wasn't sophisticated or regal like any lady he had witnessed but he didn't care. Goddess or not, he was happy she liked the meal so much. The natural oil of the fish she ate coated her fingers, making them shine and her mouth was covered in stray pieces of fish scales and meat. She looked so adorable he felt like reaching over and patting her on the head.

_Wait, would that mean I'd be treating her like a pet?_

He watched her munch on and shrugged. He didn't really think she'd mind anyway. It was a silly pat on the head.

He was about to pull on his painting shirt again when her voice called out.

"Argon, why is it that undead cannot eat?"

He frowned at the question. He had thought he mentioned it at least once to her. Or maybe he had done so in his head and forgot to tell her?

He looked at her. She had put down her skewer to stare at him, patiently awaiting his answer. The question seemed to be something that troubled her, if the way her tail twisted was anything to go by.

He smiled. Why was she always so damn thoughtful towards him, didn't she realize she was making it more and more difficult for him to see her as just his friend? While he admitted it wasn't a bad idea, he couldn't allow himself to do so. What kind of life was that to live with a man fated to go hollow one day? He couldn't damn her to a life like that, no matter how hard he wanted to accept his feelings for her.

"Well, it's not that we _can't _eat. We just don't, or at least, I don't."

"Why?"

"Personally? I don't know. After becoming undead I've never felt the need to eat or drink. Besides, the times I have ingested anything, the taste was most foul."

She placed a pale finger on her chin and pouted cutely, thinking about something for a moment before looking back at him.

"Would you like a bite of fish then?" She asked it so innocently, he wouldn't refuse her even if he could.

With a small nod, she rose to her haunches and blew a stream of icy-air that killed the fire in front of them. With her right hand still tightly gripping the last skewer of fish, she leant over the embers below her and entered his personal bubble. Argon gulped as she crept forward until her knee's rested a few inches away from his. He opened his mouth to speak but was silenced when she placed the fish against his lips, a warm smile on her face.

"It's delicious, I promise."

He looked at the fish and noticed a small chunk missing near the neck. He gazed back at her and noticed the deep blush she was sporting.

_Oh… well that's sneaky of her._

Not wanting to be rude, he opened his mouth wide and sunk his teeth into the fish's neck. He felt and heard it _crunch_ in his mouth as he drew his head back and chewed silently, a look of surprise on his face when the flavor hit his taste buds.

_Hey. It's not bad at all._

Priscilla took the skewer away from him and placed her hands in her lap. She had seen him staring at her whilst she ate and thought he was hungry. He hadn't eaten in front of her once, unlike Laurentius that seemed to indulge in the berries and plants they passed in various areas of Lordran. And after finding out that he didn't choose to eat at all made her want to take the initiative. It wasn't like he would die if he ate something, and the fish he had caught tasted _heavenly_. It would have been a waste for him not to know how good the food he had caught and cooked for her tasted.

His swallow brought her back to reality and she gazed at his amber orbs shining brightly. It was captivating when he grinned broadly and flashed her those pearly-whites of his. The cherry on top was that he was still topless, a guilty pleasure she wouldn't tell a soul about. How was it possible for a man to look _this_ good?!

"Well… how was it?"

His grin stretched wider and he closed his eyes in joy. "Divine. In fact, I haven't tasted anything that good before."

She blushed red as he stood up and put his shirt and mask back on before dusting his trousers off. While he readied himself for their departure, she gingerly took a small bite from the larger bite-mark he had left behind on the cooked fish and flushed crimson.

_It was divine indeed…_

* * *

**Ho ho, I said I wouldn't put her in leather… but I did it anyway! Mwahaha! (*evil grin)**

**I thought this was a good time to bring back the fluffiness of our pair into the mix. They've been through so much lately that I thought this would definitely help them unwind, ya' know?**

**As for Argon's lack of eating, I drew the conclusion that even though the Chosen Undead in canon is still basically human, he doesn't really eat or drink throughout the game. While I understand that the events of the undead quest technically only happen in a day or two (since the sun never actually sets even after 10 straight hours of playing) it's still peculiar to note that the only time the player does ingest anything is when he/she heals with Estus/blessed water or eats a plant for some status effect. I mentioned in a previous chapter that whatever Argon eats makes him regurgitate a few hours later but that was due to how bad the stuff he ate tasted.**

**Again, I will be updating every other chapter to fix the TERRIBLE** **errors I have made. Please stay tuned, another character known for clobbering is about to make an appearance.**

**Please do R and R (at this point, I've officially given up. My poor ampersand… rest in peace.), I'd love to read your thoughts, opinion's and ideas should you have any. I accept flames that help to better me as a writer, as well. Please don't be shy if you have a problem.**

**Thank you for reading and I will se-**

**-you damned pervert! (*smashes mihairu7 in the face with a frying pan)**

**Yeeouch! The hell did you get a frying pan from?! And why are you here?**

**-you just did a shower scene with innocent Priscilla and you have the nerve to ask why I'm here?!**

**I am not perverted, and I didn't make it that descriptive. Don't get so emotional.**

**-what happened to this being a fic with language and violence only, huh?**

**I didn't write anything smexy and she was covered by mud! It was part of the fluff.**

**-really now? (*draws gravity hammer)**

**W-Wait! It's not what you think! It was… it was, uh… it was mildly ecchi! Yeah, that!**

**\- (*dead silence)**

**What I say?**

**-and you say you aren't a pervert (*run's at mihairu7 with gravity hammer)**

**WHAT! THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEAN-**

**-Vanish from this world!**

**HEEEELLLLLLPP!!!**


	11. Chapter 11

**It's raining here at my place, there aren't any vampiric bugs munching on me and I met a fellow Bloodborne gamer just two days ago. Ah, how the fandom continues to grow…**

**Before I begin the chapter, I just need to give a shoutout to _joecola00. _Big thanks for that in-depth explanation of the Dark Souls convolution and state of time. I knew a few things about it and the hints from Solaire gave me some insight, but now I get the full picture, and it's all thanks to you! =D**

**And yes Mr. Adis, screw Midir and his scaly behind!**

**This is one of the reasons why I adore this community. People aren't afraid to lend their fellow gamer's a helpful explanation when we're obviously missing a few screws in the grand machine (and in our own heads). Thank God for you all.**

**As for this fic, I've already made it clear that time is the same whereby there's a day and night cycle (refer to chapter 2) so I might or might not change that depending on whether it suit's the story.**

**Any who, let this chapter begin!**

* * *

"Hey Priscilla."

"Yes Argon?"

"Was that door always there?"

"What door are you referring to?"

"That one over _there._" The undead said, pointing to an almost non-existent building shaped like a cone.

"I still don't- wait. Has that been there all along?"

"You see? I think it's an illusion!"

"You seem to be more excited than usual. What makes this illusion any different to Sir Eingy's wall?"

"I don't know, I'm just excited!"

The goddess watched her companion bound over the muddy hill with as much enthusiasm as a flabbergasted child and sighed. Just where did he get all this energy from exactly?

"I've come through this part of Darkroot so many times before that I've basically memorised every nook and cranny. To discover a new area is like picking up a crateload of dropped souls from a corpse!"

She cringed at the image. She could understand his enthusiasm, but his way of wording things needed more practice. Imagining someone as kind as Argon happily scavenging through a hollowed undead's body parts was not a pleasant thought in the slightest.

The 'door' the two had been staring at for more than ten minutes wasn't as hidden as they assumed it was. A large declining hill on the side of the small cluster of trees led to said building, with small glowing flower's dotting the way there like torches on the walls of a cellar. The path there was wide enough to fit an armour-clad boar and was basically impossible for simple minds to notice.

Then again, the goddess reasoned that maybe she hadn't seen it at first glance because of the pure beauty of Darkroot's lake and waterfall. The added darkness of this area and the tall trees also did a superb job of hiding the small area of stone and wood.

She stared at Argon as he waited at the foot of the hill for her, his hand outstretched to take hers, which she accepted. As for why the black-haired undead hadn't noticed the area after coming down here multiple times was another story entirely. Perhaps that hydra he had spoken of before had occupied his attention or maybe his eyesight just wasn't that grand as compared to hers?

She mentally scratched out the latter. Argon was an undead. While that didn't guarantee that his eyes would be improved, his mastery with both the Dragonslayer bow and ordinary crossbow's and wood bows was astonishingly noteworthy. Even she, in all her godly glory, could not spear a hollow against the wall of the Undead Church when standing on the opposite end of the expansive building, and from around the _corner_ of an arched walkway no less.

She narrowed it down to his tunnel vision. She knew that he had a problem with multitasking at certain moments, and this was a prime example. The cross breed knew him well enough to know when his mind was focused solely on one chunk of the titanite slab rather than the other shards that made it up.

She stumbled slightly while trying to reach him and his strong grip steadied her. After a moment of her getting her footing right, he released her hand and they walked up towards the mouldy door before them. Thankfully he his tunnel vision hadn't picked up on the pink blush she was sporting. She couldn't help but feel flustered when the man that had basically seen her nude held her with such a firm, yet gentle grip.

The stairs leading up to the circular tower were covered in mud and sand, and warm light outlined the gaps of the door like rays of sunlight bursting through the clouds.

"Where do you suppose it leads to?"

"Well, we are in the Basin of Darkroot, which is situated under the Parish," Argon began and cupped his chin.

"From where this building is situated, I would guess that it would take us to the Undead Burg… or somewhere around there."

Priscilla tilted her head to the side in question.

"The Undead Burg?"

"Ah, that's right. You haven't gotten a chance to see it yet." The undead replied and walked up the steps leading towards the door.

"It's great. Ash falling from the sky, the smell of smoke and the sight of broken architecture… Oh! And let's not forget the overpopulation of hollow's trying to steal your soul's and humanity." He placed a hand on the rusted handle of the door as he spoke.

"You'll love it there. Lots and lots of people to behead."

The cross breed huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. Ever since their peaceful talk at the bonfire had ended, Argon had yet to stop teasing her about her new outfit. She had been both ecstatic and interested that the black leather she wore belonged to the worshipers of Velka. It wasn't everyday her she got the chance to learn something about her favourite aunt, and it was also rare to dress in clothing so snug, it felt almost breathable.

Her companion had mentioned that with the addition of a black cowl, she would resemble the Reaper's people always spoke about that claimed your soul at death. While the concept was mildly amusing she had immediately complained about the teasing title. As a goddess - no - as a woman, she didn't like the idea of being associated with something as dark and evil as a walking skeleton with a scythe.

"For the last time, I am _not _a Grim Reaper Argon." She whined and pouted at his back, her cheeks puffed out cutely.

"Aw, now don't be a kill joy, you know I'm only teas… huh."

She blinked and walked up to the stairway when he didn't say anything further. Her eye's landed on his hand that gripped the door handle. The lock hadn't budged.

Argon mumbled to himself before withdrawing his hand from the door and digging into the pouch that held his bottomless box. After a few seconds he pulled a set of keys attached to a large ring and shouted in triumph.

"Ah-ha! Found them."

"I didn't know you had keys for the locked areas in Lordran." She said in wonder. While he had given her a single master key to open the locked gate in New Londo, she had thought it was only for gates and other exits like it. She hadn't known the undead kept similar ones for _every_ locked door they would encounter.

"Oh, I don't. These are my master keys, I found them on my person while trapped in the Asylum. Guess I must have forged them when I was human."

The goddess narrowed her eyes and stared at him as he placed the first key into the lock.

"And what use would that many keys be to a man, unless he were once a burglar?"

"Suspicious of me already, I see. What, are my words not enough to convince you?" he chuckled and turned his head to look at her. She returned his stare with a raised white eyebrow and folded her arms under her chest.

"Well?"

Argon shrugged in reply. "Not every person you meet had it easy in life. Maybe I was a thief as a human, maybe not." He withdrew the key and tried the second one, then the third.

"All I know is that I must have needed these for something, otherwise I wouldn't have them. Either way, at least they came in handy after arriving in Lordran. You know, I saved a trapped sorcerer once that was in the Lower Burg near the Depth's Laurentius hates so much. And it was all thanks to these very keys."

Priscilla dropped her suspicious attitude and played with a lock of her hair in curiosity. "Really?"

Argon nodded. "Want to hear more?"

The cross-breed's tail flicked the air excitedly as her emerald eyes widened in joy.

"Please continue!"

It was always a treat to hear of her companion's exploit's. He just had a knack for storytelling that made her tail swish about - like it did now - in anticipation. In truth, she felt like a child when he told her these stories, but she couldn't care less. The adventure's he had were immensely exciting to her that all she could do when he spoke of them was stare in awe, her mouth open in amazement. His explanation of delving into the maze of Sen's Fortress while madly sprinting away from boulder's or fighting off hordes of armed skeleton's while attempting to steal a perfectly good Zweihander, filled her skin with goosebumps and made her heartbeat quicken, as if she were right there in the mix.

Argon didn't go into as much depth as she would have liked whenever they were travelling from one area to the next, but the fleeting word's he offered still put a spell on her, nonetheless.

"Sure then." Argon continued. He was fitting the fifth key into the hole as he began his tale.

"Griggs had a voice like a scared handmaiden and the self-pity he wallowed in was on par with the bog of Blighttown. At first I thought it was an actual human trapped inside that small room that smelled like rotting wood." He fitted a lengthy key into the keyhole and jiggled it around. "Imagine my surprise when I busted down the door only to find a grown man cowering behind barrels of stale water."

Argon turned the key and a satisfying click met his ear's. He grinned behind his mask and pocketed his key's before pushing the door open and turning to face Priscilla.

"But at least he returned to Firelink without a scratch. Still though, what kind of sorcerer's too afraid to kill a mangey dog without fur and eyes? I feel bad that Logan left him behind but after conversing with the soft-spoken scholar myself, I honestly don't think that sorcery was the profession for him."

He pushed the door open wider and held out a hand for Priscilla to take. The light from the room splashed onto his back, making the crisp whiteness of his painting guardian uniform shine brighter. He almost looked like an angel standing there if the Velkian rapier at his waist wasn't present, or the porcelain mask that hid his handsome face from her yearning gaze.

"I'll introduce you when we return to Fire-"

Before he could finish his sentence, Priscilla watched as an enormous hunk of rock slammed into him from behind, sending his body careening into the air, over her startled form to land a few inches near the cliff-fall of Darkroot Basin.

He landed mask first into the dirt, disturbing the sand and creating an Argon-sized crater in the earth.

"-_link_… ow."

The goddess rushed to his side and rolled him over. He groaned in pain and they both stared at the open doorway. A tall figure dressed head-to-foot in what looked like solid rock stood at the entrance. On his back rested a hulking shield that blocked the light and on his shoulder's was a club so large, Priscilla did a double-take on whether he was holding it, or if the rock was holding him.

"What in the hell is that?!" Argon managed to shout before the figure turned on its heel and disappeared.

They waited for it to come back but after more than ten minutes with Argon stuck in shock, resting on an equally miffed Priscilla's lap, they got the sense that it wasn't returning anytime soon.

The cross breed sighed and was about to suggest they turn back when the undead in her lap suddenly shot to his feet and began cracking his knuckles.

"Oh, so you think you can hit me for four and _walk away_?! You ugly hunk of stone, I'm gonna shove that club where even the light of Gwyn doesn't shine!"

"A-Argon!" Priscilla stuttered out with red cheeks. It had certainly been a while since she had seen him like this. But the fact that his hollowed aggressiveness and vulgar language was combined to form this vengeful side of him wasn't a good thing. Whatever happened wasn't doing to be good, she just knew it.

"Oh, yeah, it's on now. It's on ya' one-shot wonder! This means war!" He blurted out and equipped a menacing looking greatsword from his inventory. At a closer glance, the cross breed noticed that it was the same greatsword he had asked Andre to re-forge.

Artorias' greatsword.

Argon walked up to the opened door and stomped through it, the sound echoing loudly in the circular room. "Two can play at that game. Let's see how _you_ like it when I plunge this mighty blade up your-"

Priscilla could only cover her mouth with her hand's in greater shock when her saviour was bashed into the ground as if he were an ant under someone's boot. Someone's large, stony boot.

Should she even attempt to help him? He seemed pretty intent on facing this opponent himself, and she really didn't want to be on the receiving end of one of those gigantic smashes, especially not in a smaller form where she would no doubt feel every bone in her tiny body break into powder. But this was Argon she was talking about. It was no time to be selfish. He was her comrade, her friend, she wouldn't leave him to die here.

With confidence in her stride, she took a firm step forward as Argon rose shakily to his hands and knees, groaning as he did so.

"G-Good one… you ugly bast-" she watched as the same block of rock slammed into his side, flinging him from view.

"Ga-hah!" She heard him shout as a loud thud sounded to her left.

She cast an illusion upon herself and drew her scythe as a swirl of icy air enveloped her form. It dissipated after a few seconds to reveal a completely cloaked cross breed.

She just hoped she would be able to make it in time to help him. This foe didn't seem unbeatable but something at the back of her mind nagged her to be cautious. With a deep breath to calm her nerves, Priscilla approached the opened door.

* * *

If the sensation of being sat on by an obese Asylum Demon was agonisingly gross, the new experience of getting swatted around like a pesky fly by a stoic hunk of rock was just insulting.

Of course, the familiar bones in his spine and arm's breaking was normal, but the fact that this oversized troll had just bitch-slapped him into a wall hurt like hell.

Argon groaned as he stood up again and lifted his sword into an acceptable stance. The armour-wearing enemy stood patiently a few feet away, one hand on that enormous stick of his, while the other dug inside the jumble of chains and plates of his armour to fish out a silver talisman.

_A Lloyd's Talisman? Why the hell would he need one of those?_

Argon had had his fair share of experience with the shiny balls that contained magic condensed inside. They were useful during his first few weeks in Lordran, whereby the more difficult undead needed to be prevented from healing with Estus. Although that moment they took to drink those liquid flames were a great opening for Argon to strike, he had found it much more useful - and hilarious - to incapacitate their only source of healing by smashing a talisman in their faces before battle.

Not only did it piss them off and make them attack wildly, but the looks on their dumb faces when the Estus they drank did nothing but burn their wrinkled lips was priceless to Argon. In fact, he ended up bursting into laughter whenever it happened most of the time.

The smile that had been present on his face while he thought about those moments quickly faded, however, when he realized why this weird-looking human had one of those talismans to begin with.

_Oh crap_.

The armoured man flung the silver ball at him and Argon barely had enough time to raise the length of his sword in front of him before the talisman burst into wisps of silver smoke around it.

Argon coughed as the smoke entered his lungs and caused him to gag. He hadn't known such tools would even work on a sane undead like himself but didn't stew on it long before he had to roll to the side as that tooth-shaped rock broke the cobblestone next to him.

Argon pivoted on his heel and swung his greatsword against the man's back but groaned when his blade met the wall shield. He had forgotten it was there. This guy was like that golem he had faced with Tarkus' phantom, impregnable and damn annoying.

With surprising speed for his size and weight, the armoured giant spun around and brought that rock hammer down upon Argon, who lifted his blade up just in time to prevent himself from being a pancake on the floor.

The rock met greatsword and the undead was brought to his knees. He was about to stand up to strike his foe's vulnerable front when a big boot connected with his chest and sent him flying back, his greatsword clattering to the broken ground.

Argon felt his body go numb as his back skated against the ground before his head painfully met a set of spiralling stairs.

"Ouch." He didn't have the strength to scream out, or enough will power make the words coming out from his mouth believable. This ugly giant in rock had just exhausted him after a few cheap shots… how anti-climactic.

He laid motionless as the giant in rock-armour stomped towards him. This was it. His first death in a while. He wondered how it would feel, whether his darksign would burn hot or cold, or if he would feel the soul's drain out of him when he died. The stomping caused his dreary mind to be lulled into a state of sleepiness and he briefly wondered what Priscilla would do whilst he made the tedious trek back down to Darkroot Basin.

Knowing her she'd most likely cleave through torrents of enemies to reach him or frost the entire Burg to ice just to ease her frayed nerves. The undead understood she was prone to worrying like an over-protective mother; hell, he could write his own book on the number of occasions she had forced him to rest before the start of a new day or stay grounded whilst she healed him with the power of her Lifehunt.

In his imagination he could even picture a mini-Priscilla huffing and puffing in exasperation as she waited with a laughing Andre for his return, body half-hollow and expression as flat as he was about to become from this ogre of a humans killing blow. How the hell could the guy even move with such dexterity like that with a literal _boulder _on his shoulder? Argon knew for a fact that he himself could lift things nearly triple his weight - he had hauled the Lordvessel to its final resting place after all - but this person's raw strength was just ridiculous. Maybe when he revived and plunged a lengthy sword up this giant's posterior he could calmly ask what he bench-pressed? The thought made him chuckle despite his dire situation.

"So, you are still capable of communication... how interesting."

_Wait... did the ogre just speak?_

"Most of the filth that has ever come into my chamber are nothing more than bloodstain's after my first strike. I commend you, if anything, at your stubbornness to die, boy."

_There's no way it just spoke. It's an OGRE for Lloyd's sake, they can't possibly talk. Hold on, do Ogre's even exist?_

"What is the matter youngling? Hound chewed your tongue?" the Ogre - or stone giant - chuckled from where it stood gazing down at Argon.

Whatever this thing was, it seemed to have its own personality. Moreover, it had encountered undead like him before on various occasions. Perhaps he could gain some information before his imminent demise?

Argon forced a smile onto his masked features and choked out a laugh. "And here I was thinking that ugly tapestries were only good for melting the eyes of passers-by. Then again, I guess even centuries-old troll's like you can learn to grow a sense of humour."

The rock in man's image grunted and adjusted the human-sized club in his grip. If he were a few feet taller and wore shining gold, he could face Smough in a duel of sticks and stones, maybe he would have the advantage too given the guy was the complete opposite of the lumbering bone-eater in terms of size.

All jokes aside, Smough's mighty smiting was nothing compared to this thing's clobbering. That bulbous end delivered massive damage to his body after a light tap and it wasn't even enchanted. He would need to choose his words carefully the next time he spoke, least he be another bloodstain on the floor.

"You recovered from my blow better than I anticipated if the speck of dirt you are can still fling insults an archbishop, boy." The armoured man shifted to lean on his other leg and managed what looked like a shrug, Argon couldn't tell from how high the shoulder plates were.

"Yet all undead lack the etiquette and respect that dwellers of Lordran are renowned for. I shouldn't raise my expectations that high."

"Big talk from a fellow undead in arms."

The giant huffed again. "Comparing pathetic ants to a mountain is the epitome of underestimation. That aside, it seems you've also a sharp mind."

"Hard not think about it when it's clear you've been around for more than just a few decades. The armour you wear and the crest you carry on that breastplate isn't from this era." Not that Argon could relate to anything from this era. The memories from his past were still non-existent, he wouldn't know the difference between _artwork_ from this era or the previous one.

"Not that it matters, but my will to live overshadows this curse I've spent almost millennia attempting to purge."

Argon scoffed. "Maybe if you weren't so bad at your duty you wouldn't have been trapped in here praying until eternity ended, old man."

The talking armour shifted again before lifting the massive club skyward. Argon had certainly pissed him off now.

"Those will be your final words. Begone filth."

The undead caught a shimmer of light behind the imposing armour before him and a grin split his face. Maybe he wouldn't have to revive after all.

"You _do_ realize I won't actually die, right?"

The giant remained unperturbed and used both hands to grasp the rock in his hand. If that hit landed, it would certainly leave him paralysed after revival, or at least his mind would be.

"Then we will re-enact this event when you return to collect the treasure you will leave behind." He raised the black stone high above his head and Argon was again astonished that this freak of Lordran could really utilize a weapon so gargantuan without the need to rest. He agreed that he would be most certainly screwed if he was alone.

It was good thing he wasn't.

A slash of silver flashed behind the hulking set of armour before the sound of metal parting and blood gushing was heard throughout the room. The giant let out a surprised gasp and looked down to see its flank bleeding from a long gash the length of one's hand. It wasn't even a few seconds later when two more gashes decorated his armour on the right bicep and ankle that spurted blood like a burst fountain.

"What witchcraft is this!" The giant shouted in pain and the grip on that cobbering stick lessened substantially. It was at this moment that Argon decided to flip his broken body up from the floor and aim his ashen catalyst at the thing's rocky chest. An azure glow as bright as the sky flared, casting the circular room in a brighter light. The giant, for his part, could only freeze up at the sudden change in pace before Argon uttered the final words of the spell's incantation he had been silently chanting.

"...And from the dark cometh unsmotherable light to purge disparity- **_Soul Spear_ **!"

The giant could only watch as his vision was filled with a brilliant white before he was struck by a thousand balls of azure flame, flinging his body backwards but not capsizing him as the undead had expected. Swirls of blue energy cascaded off his breastplate and arms before dissipating.

The armoured man panted loudly, one hand resting on a bloodied leg as he balanced one knee against the cobblestoned ground. A large hole decorated his breastplate between the helm and the abdomen to reveal damaged skin beneath. Purple, wrinkled skin with thick veins that pulsated as more blood seeped from the wound.

"So, an old crow like you still bleeds, huh?" Argon said to himself as the armoured undead lifted his head to him, that enormous rock somehow still held in his right hand as he rose to his feet.

"But _damn_, are you resilient. Just what is that amour made of, hypocrisy?"

The giant drew his shield as Priscilla suddenly appeared next to Argon, her illusionary spell finally wearing off. She gave her companion a sideways glance and he nodded to her in thanks before reaching into a pouch on his hip.

"I have an idea if this becomes a losing battle," he whispered under his breath to her as he drew his Estus flask to heal up. Priscilla's keen ears caught the soft voice but made no action to show it. "but I'll require your help distracting him for it to work." Argon pushed his mask up so that only his mouth was visible and placed the tip of the flask against his lips. After a tiny second of hesitation he took an even tinier sip. The flames that usually healed his injures and warmed his body instead wet his lips with a cold sensation and a vile taste of moist soot.

He made a disgusted sound and spat, making his companion turn and frown at him. It was worth a shot, and at least now his curiosity of the matter had been sated, as well as his appetite.

"You are brave, youngling." The giant said as Argon replaced his flask and pulled his mask back into place, securing the straps and clips which held the porcelain face covering. Some of them had come loose or just outright broke when the undead had been hammered, swatted and kicked into the ground. He would need to mend what he could later.

"Even in the face of death you remain passive. However, even with a goddess as your reinforcement, you cannot hope to best me."

Argon tilted his head to the side in surprise whilst Priscilla faltered, almost dropping her scythe in the process. Was this guy psychic along with comically strong?

The giant chuckled in mild amusement. "The stench of your grandfather lay's heavy on you, child. I certainly would not be one to forget the divinity I detest most." He raised his shield and took low stance, covering his chest and legs.

"It is unfortunate, but as the descendant of that swine's kin, your light must also be snuffed out..."

Now it was Argon's turn to laugh in amusement as he waved the ash-coloured catalyst in front of him already in the midst of another spell. "Let's see if you can back up your words with actions, old man."

The undead dressed in rock tensed as more azure light began to fill the space around them. He watched cautiously as orbs of the blue energy condensed into a semicircle around both of his target's, spiralling around them like wheels with no spurs and axels.

Argon put away the catalyst and dug into another pouch. All the while the goddess next to him dropped into a low crouch, legs far apart as she two-handed her scythe and locked it at her side for a strong sweeping attack, ready to pounce at any moment. Even though they were in a dangerous situation that could mean his hollowing and her eternal slumber, Argon couldn't help but imagine white-pointy cat ears on her to complete the image he could see in his mind as he saw her in his periphery. A stray thought crossed his mind as he drew continued to poke around for something before it left his overactive imagination.

_She got down real low. And she previously wore fur. Now she's in pretty form-fitting legging's... Should I start calling her 'shorty' from now on? But wouldn't that just mean I'm teasing her height? Who came up the name 'shorty', or did I just make it up? Wait... what was I thinking about again?_

"Enough of this," the giant grunted out an took a big step forward. Priscilla tensed even more. The fact that he still had that much fight left in him after stomaching a sorcery strong enough to take off a Taurus Demon's deformed skull was impressive.

"You will come to understand your ignorance for daring to challenge Lordran's Archbishop, the immovable Rock known as-"

In the time Argon took to blink, the goddess shot forward with speed befitting of a lightning bolt, before her scythe flashed menacingly with its Lifehunt enchantment ready to decapitate another poor fool for his overconfidence. Unfortunately, she hadn't accounted for just how skilled this giant of a man was, and she blinked in both confusion and shock when her blade screeched off his chained wall shield - the force of her attack stopped as effortlessly as a barricade would an incoming arrow. She audibly gawked as the man's body twitched in response.

"-Havel."

He swung his club down upon the cross breed with such speed and raw power, it was as if he was throwing a small stone - which in his case wasn't quite far from the truth.

Priscilla dived to the right, narrowly missing the attack that would have made her shorter than a blade of grass and was about to reply with a strike of her own when she had to backstep the next smash that the giant in rock miraculously formed from nowhere. She lifted her gaze to him and was amazed at how fluid his movement with that heavy weapon was.

After putting his back into that first strike that lifted him off his feet, he had used the momentum to his advantage; utilizing that massive shield as a counterweight to spin on his foot, lift that monstrosity of a club and follow up with another strike more powerful than the last. The cross breed briefly played with the thought that the name Havel was familiar to her in some way, but she couldn't entertain it long enough before she had to backflip away from the huge shield that would have certainly caved her face in if she had stood still.

The soulmass around her form spun like a glowing halo before rushing to meet the intruder, curving around the giant's shield to explode against his thigh, waist and exposed chest cavity. Havel grunted in what seemed like annoyance and stomped after the cross breed, attempting to crush her tail under his massive boot to halt her movements but was stopped midway when a spear the size of a spire broke against his shoulder plate from behind, causing him to lurch forward.

Havel turned his visored gaze towards the cocky undead momentarily to see him aiming another stone-tipped spear at him from a large bow planted into the ground.

"That tail is exclusively for mood indicating. It is _not_ your personal floor mat."

Behind the giant in rock, a certain cross breed flushed crimson as a wave of spiked icicles left her mouth, piercing the armoured giant at point blank range. She stood frozen from shock and embarrassment at the undeads confession.

_He knew this whole time?!_

Havel redirected his focus back onto the statue-like cross breed, preparing a heavy strike in reply and got a dragonslayer arrow in the leg for his efforts. He grunted out and dropped to his knee, raising his shield up as Argon's soulmass darted towards him. Azure balls of light burst against it harmlessly as the armoured undead recovered and rose once again.

Argon, meanwhile, busied himself with lighting the fuses of the remaining three black firebomb's in his inventory. He would have to use what little amount of the less potent one's he had collecting dust somewhere in his bottomless box, but they would have to do. Right now, the trio of bombs in his hands were his only lifeline. With as much force as his arm could muster in his beaten state, he flung the firebomb's at Havel's boots, momentarily stopping his advance towards him. Red flame burnt in a crooked line in front of the self-proclaimed archbishop as he stood there impassively, wall shield slung onto his back again. Argon's eyes glinted beneath his mask.

"You expect weak explosions to mar _my_ armour?" Havel asked mockingly with a gauntlet thumping against his chest. Priscilla chose this moment to rush forward and slashed against the base of his spine. The armoured man spun round, however, and used his club like a shield to absorb the blow. He stepped forward and tried to flatten her but only managed to cave in the floor as she backflipped out of his reach for the second time.

"A ram alone cannot hope to best the mountain if it's hooves are unfit for the terrain."

"Are you sure the title of archbishop was the right calling for you? Ragged philosopher seemed more apt in my opinion." Argon replied as he began to climb the spiralling staircase which he had reached during Havel's scuffle with the cross breed.

"Hmph! Higher ground will not avail you an advantage. You will perish like the other's that were foolish enough to brew the same suicidal tactic."

Instead of a biting retort, Argon just chuckled. Havel turned his body towards the stairs as the flames at his feet finally died and adjusted his grip on his club. It was now or never. Argon folded his arms smugly and nodded to himself, as if agreeing on something in his mind.

"You think I mean to lure you up here and use gravity as my advantage to wound you?"

The man shifted in his armour and regarded the undead. "So, you aren't as foolish as I predicted." He said impressed. "To what end is this endeavour then?"

The undead allowed a grin to split his feature's and placed a hand on his hip.

"If external explosions don't affect a tank like you, then I have no choice but to use implosion." He briefly turned his head to the goddess standing a few meters away from the giant before pointing a gloved finger at the ground Havel stood on.

"Now. Be torn asunder."

Before Havel could rush into attack-mode, he raised his club to block another torrent of ice that was fired his way from Priscilla but couldn't dodge the fireballs that struck him from above as it burst against his side in a flurry of flames. He glanced up as the masked undead conjured more pyromancy spells and flung it at him. So the fool knew pyromancy as well as Vinheimian sorcery? Maybe he wasn't as mindless as he gave him credit for, but even so…

Havel felt more shards of icy spears attempt to penetrate his armour. The spell in itself was decent in power, this descendant of Gwyn had skill, he agreed but it would do naught against his enchanted armour. Of course, after so many centuries without tools to repair his equipment he agreed that that last spell – Soul Spear was it – had left his front vulnerable. However, with mere shards of _ice_ stabbing his rock armour, it felt little more than an annoying tickle. Besides… their attacks were uncoordinated. The tailed woman in black would cast her spell only for the ice to melt due to the undeads intense flames. It was a good plan to flog his vision with offensive magic, but foolish to do so without understanding basic logic. Hot and cold just didn't mix well together, they repulsed one another.

Havel merely scoffed.

Then suddenly, the armoured archbishop felt the space around him condense and expand rapidly before the air rippled violently and exploded. The armoured giant experienced the feeling of being pulled and pushed apart simultaneously as his body ricocheted off multiple shockwaves that tore apart his armour like old rags on a decomposed corpse. The area around Havel erupted in white steam, obscuring both Priscilla and Argon's vision.

And then there was silence.

Priscilla clenched and unclenched her free hand anxiously as they waited for the steam to clear. That last blast of ice had drained her reserves to the limit. If their friend decided to survive that attack she wouldn't be strong enough to escape or defend herself. A bead of sweat ran down the side of her face as she panted lightly and turned her slitted eyes to Argon. He was standing a motionless as before, but she could tell that his mind was already working in overdrive.

As an undead that had spent months in Lordran with his life hanging by a thread, Argon knew that lowering your guard when assuming to be the victor was a devastating mistake. The foe's here were all merciless - from the mindless hollows to the seemingly docile sewer rats - and would never pass up an opportunity to use any possibility of winning they had, even if it meant suicide.

So, the chosen undead stood firm atop the stairwell, arms at his sides. His mind was already formulating minor tactics to slow the strong undead before him in case he had survived his and Priscilla's joint attack. Sub-consciously he hoped that Havel had perished by now, as it stood he didn't have enough in him to face another wave of vain metaphors and spine-crushing blows.

He breathed in deeply to calm himself and steel his nerves. His body ached all over from the force they'd had to endure thus far, and he would be lying if he said the cracked bones in his limbs weren't bothering him. It was normal for the undead to suffer such extremities while travelling the kingdom, and broken bones were more like a badge of honour after each battle than a hinderance. However, the _pain_ of breaking said bones never really did ebb away after experiencing it over five dozen times.

He was almost about to consider resting his aching legs on the smooth-stoned stairwell when the annoying sound of rattling chains and armour sounded in the eye of the steam.

_Here we go again..._

A wrinkled arm covered in broken pieces of armour emerged to swat the white steam away and revealed a still breathing Havel at its centre. The man still had that ridiculous helm on that made the back of his head resemble a floor brush and his right hand somehow still held onto that massive club as if it was a lifeline. His armour was positively destroyed and revealed patches of his hollowed flesh beneath, purple and void of all muscle mass. He looked like a skeleton with sagging flesh under that armour, and honestly Argon didn't throw a taunt at the sight. Who knew how long the man had been locked inside of this circular building without a single sprite of humanity to sustain him. In fact, the undead almost felt sorry for him, almost. He _had_ just tried to kill them after all.

"Do you... think you've won?" Havel rasped out. It was clear that blast had wounded him badly. Argon and Priscilla watched as he lifted a foot to take a step forward. His body was shaking from the exertion, they were in no danger from him anymore.

"Don't be foolish. I am Havel the Rock... and you will receive the final rest you deserve."

Argon placed a hand back onto his hip and sighed deeply. Forget about him being stubborn, this guy was delusional if he thought he could still manage to kill the both of them, never mind just _one_.

"Time to end this for real." Havel stared at the undead as he raised his arm and curled his hand into a fist. In what seemed like another form of magic, a gigantic hammer made of what seemed to be a petrified tree materialised in his grasp.

Argon double-handed the hammer and tensed the muscles in his legs, preparing to leap off the stairs. Immediately, Havel reached behind him to grab his shield but found nothing there. He turned his head. His shield had been thrown far across the room from that blast earlier. He was defenceless.

"Undead Smash!"

The archbishop snapped his head back to Argon in time to see the undead hurtling down at him in mid-air. The dull grey of his hammer caught the man's attention and he did the only thing he could in this situation by raising his own club like a shield. A blow from that weapon from that height by such an insane undead would surely kill him, it was safer to use what he could to survive even if it did mean his prized possession was the scapegoat.

Priscilla stared in awe as her saviour brought down his hammer against Havel's club with such force that the ground beneath the armoured man cracked under the pressure. She had thought that he was weakened direly from the continuous barrage of clobbering he had endured. To witness him lift a weapon twice his size, leap from a higher platform despite his injuries _and_ possess such power in his attack was astonishing to her emerald orbs.

The sound of two weapons of devastation colliding created a noise so sudden that a shockwave rippled from the point of impact, pushing the cross breed back a step. For a moment, it almost seemed as if the two undead were stuck in limbo as their respective weapons screeched against the other, before a loud crack broke the suspense.

She watched as Havel's monstrous club snapped in two halves as Argon's hammer forced its way through, connecting with the man's helm and smashing him to the floor in the same way he had dropped Argon to eat the stone below.

Dust and broken flakes of stone flew in every direction around the two as Argon's feet touched the ground. He stood stationary for a few moments, his hammer still planting Havel against the floor like a nail against wood. When the armoured man didn't even twitch a finger, Argon sighed and fell backwards, the hammer tumbling to the ground with a mighty crash. It was at this moment that Priscilla decided to reunite with him, kneeling at his side, her arms supporting him up as he panted breathlessly.

"And stay... oh," Argon rested a hand over his chest and gasped for air. That hammer had been too much for him to handle. He still needed to strengthen his body it seemed.

"...Stay down. Ha... remind me to never... oh man... never to use that thing again. It's way too heavy."

The cross breed sighed and allowed a smile to finally grace her tired features. That battle had been strenuous for the both of them. Although she hadn't been smashed with that terrifying club of Havel's, the amount of magic she had used as well as the agility she had to show to manoeuvre around the armoured undead drained her completely. She was glad Argon wasn't too badly injured, otherwise the small amount of healing she had collected from striking Havel with her Lifehunt wouldn't be enough to heal her companion. She would be able to mend his bones and repair any damaged organs now.

She rested her scythe against the broken ground and went to place her hands on the undeads chest but was stopped when both his hands intertwined with hers. Priscilla blushed at the action and stared at his larger hands holding her smaller ones at bay. His left hand was gloveless, and she felt the roughness of his callouses against her softer skin. It would be a lie if she said that the sensation wasn't pleasing, in addition, the size she shrunk to also made it possible to actually do things like this with him. She had never been happier to be the size of a human.

The cross breed was about to close her clawed fingers over his knuckles but was stopped when Argon pushed her hands back to her body and released the gentle grip he had on them. She looked at him in confusion as he reclined onto his back.

"Use it on the brute we just beat. He's still alive."

Priscilla blinked dumbly at him whilst he groaned in pain. He was asking her to heal the man that had clobbered him into the ground multiple times with the intent of making him a literal flap-jack? The same one that had noticed her divinity and made it his life's goal to turn her into a pretty pile of scales and crushed bones? Was Argon missing a few brain cells after that battle?

"Are... you certain?" She said it slowly, so he could rethink the command.

"Uh-huh."

"Are you truly, _truly_ certain that you wish for me to heal our foe, Argon?"

The undead picked himself up and stared at her without saying a word. She just had to be certain he was making the right decision here. There was nothing wrong with discussing this together as a couple. Well, they weren't a couple exactly... more of a partnership, a co-operative when she looked for the right word. Of course, she wouldn't really _mind_ them being a couple. He was an undead with personality disorder, she was a cross breed with parental issues and a fear of being left alone... surely, they could make it work between the two of them, right?

Her cheeks flushed red as a tomato at the thought's that had suddenly derailed from their foe to the dreamy undead. Oh, now she was calling him dreamy!

_Well, it isn't that Argon's _not _dreamy. Maybe just more mesmerising and breathtakingly- oh dear! Why is this happening?_

While the cross breed continued her internal debate Argon just watched as her face changed to four different shades of red in the span of two seconds per flush - yes, he had actually counted between intervals.

Maybe he shouldn't have stared like that. Then again, he was wearing his mask. She wouldn't have been able to see his reaction anyways. Perhaps she thought her question was silly? He could understand that Havel was their enemy and that asking her to heal the old man was like telling her to go perfume herself with rotten pine resin. He just needed to reassure her, that was it.

"Priscilla I-"

"Y-Yes?!" She blurted out rather loudly, a startled expression on her face as if she was just noticing him in front of her now. How strange... he would also need to check her for any injuries to the head just in case.

"Uh, well..." Argon cleared his throat.

"I need you to heal the old man because he might be useful to our journey. He knows more about Gwyn and the other god's than we do combined." The cross breed nodded in understanding at his words. It was true, this Havel person had been able to identify her divinity with a simple glance. If they were able to get him to explain all he knows about this dying land maybe they would be able to quicken their journey to the Lord Soul's.

Hesitantly, she approached the prone man. He seemed to be knocked out cold, she hoped she was correct in her assumption. Priscilla carefully placed her hands atop the undeads shattered armour and focussed her mind on directing the life force she gathered into him. There wasn't much she could do to make any significant difference to his physical condition, he had been mortally wounded, it didn't take a Dragon School Scholar to see that. The explosion from before had been strong enough to rip apart that impenetrable armour of his, and the lines of blood that flowed freely around parts of his body like leaks in a ship's hull emphasized that. The least she could manage right now was close the wounds that seemed the worst and, if possible, mend the burnt skin beneath.

As she did so, Argon tried to take another sip of Estus. He judged that the time of their battle should have lasted long enough for that talisman's effects to wear off. He put the flask to his lips again and took a small sip. The sensation of cold fire and the taste of soot gave him his answer and he sighed. Just how potent was the magic imbued into that ball of silver?

He briefly thought of using that weird black ring he had found in the Depth's to help him recover. It had granted him the strange ability to absorb a small portion of the life essence of the enemies he slew, and while he could admit it was a handy item to keep on his person, he couldn't escape the eerie feeling he got when wearing it. His train of thought broke when he heard the undead across from him groan. Argon turned to Havel and relaxed into a comfortable position.

"You really are a stubborn old man, 'ya know?"

The man in broken armour raised his right hand and flipped him the bird. Argon chuckled in amusement, who knew an ancient geyser like him knew how to swear in the modern era?

"Please just kill me already."

"Already begging and I haven't even mentioned your torture yet. You keep jumping two steps ahead of me and I'll run out of ideas. Besides, the whole point was to _save_ you, not let you become a worthless hollow."

"I'd much rather you do just that, hearing you speak is a nuisance that will cause me to _go_ hollow if I keep listening."

"You say that now but let's face it, you enjoyed that clash more than you let on."

"Hmph." Havel grunted and turned his head away from him. Priscilla, who had been silent the whole time, chose this moment to speak to the annoyed undead.

"How did you know that I was the granddaughter of Lord Gwyn?" she asked in a soft tone, removing her hands from his bloodied breastplate to rest on her lap. He remained silent for a long time, thinking that by ignoring her she would go away. Instead the cross breed did the opposite and patiently waited at his side, her attention solely focussed on the old undead. Eventually, the armoured man mumbled in displeasure and turned his visor to her.

"As an archbishop of the Church of Anor Londo, it was my duty to identify the divinity of various god's and enlist their aid in purging the first signs of the undead curse, under the order of the God of Sunlight himself."

"So, you were with Gwyn all those centuries ago?" Argon interrupted, and Havel grunted in reply.

"But you were human. You should have died long ago or gone hollow with the spread of the curse."

"Not that it's any of your business," Havel seethed at the masked undead as he sat up, most of his serious injuries healed up. "but I _did_ go hollow many years ago."

Argon frowned beneath his mask. He had already gone hollow? Then how was it he still retained cognitive function of his mind and body? To be hollow meant your sanity and will to live was depleted beyond zero, it meant that you were nothing but an empty shell of what you once were. Even your soul would have lost fragments of itself during the completion of hollowing. It didn't make sense for him to miraculously come _back_ from such a state.

"That's impossible, undead cannot come back from turning hollow. Even if they could, they wouldn't be the same again due to how fractured the soul would become after losing all hope and security."

"It was that very reason that I was able to return from mindlessness." The man replied and removed his helm. His face was wrinkled just like any hollow's but the light that still shined behind the blackness of his sunken eye sockets spoke of an unbridled will to live, to survive.

"I had become hollow after the betrayal of that spiteful bastard. He locked me in this tower, sealed it with his own conviction against all I stood for, and abandoned his most faithful ally in favour of that scaleless _beast_." Havel's ugly mouth curved into a scowl as he thought about his past. Priscilla flinched. There was only one scaleless beast in all Lordran the man could have been referring to. It seemed her father – if he could be called that – had made managed to become infamous among the impossibly strong and fierce. Yet another reason to despise the dragon.

In Argon's opinion, he didn't blame the man. To be betrayed, locked up and have your own friend side against you wasn't an easy thing to stomach. It reminded the younger undead of his own shadowed and fragmented past. Every time he closed his eyes the only things he really saw were the faces of people he couldn't recognise but somehow knew well. All he remembered in those dreams was the laughing, the beatings, the days spent whimpering in shackles in the farthest corner of some rotten cellar.

"It took me decades, and the many undead I annihilated with my Dragontooth only served to foster my hatred for Gwyn. That hate, along with regret and guilt is what brought me back to my senses. It is the reason I still refuse to perish, for I cannot rest while that proud excuse of a great soul lives only to uplift the gods' and trample humanity."

"Well you might find do that a difficult task." Argon stated bluntly, earning him a glare from both Havel and Priscilla. The undead looked at the two in confusion.

"What?"

"How could you say that?!" the cross breed blurted out.

"I'm not lying, am I? Gwyn stands behind a pair of immovable doors in a Kiln that may never be opened should we fail our mission."

The goddess opened her mouth to reply but thought better of it. However harsh the reality was, he was right. Havel wouldn't be able to face the Sunlight Lord if that Kiln remained closed and that Lordvessel stayed empty. Still, it was like kicking the bishop whilst he was down when the masked undead just shot down Havel's reason for remaining sane.

"So, he had chosen to flee even from the consequences of his actions... pathetic." Havel spat and shook his bald head. Whether the God of Sunlight had tried to save the First Flame or not, he had still weaselled his way out of a confrontation between all the beings he had wronged. Noble intentions aside, Havel still hated his ex-ally with a passion.

"Seems so, old man. I'd feel bad for you but you're still an insane brute with an inferiority complex." Argon commented boredly and picked up his Estus flask again to stare at its emerald and amber colour.

"Drinking that will not help." Havel said in what seemed like an act of helpfulness, or perhaps it was just to add salt to the wound that Argon couldn't recover from the beating he had just endured. "the talisman's All-father Lloyd crafted personally for my use only deplete their magical enchantment after the cycle of a full day."

"Well isn't that helpful?" the undead asked tiredly and tossed the flask to the older man.

"They were to prevent the undead we hunted from healing. These damnable flasks were a nuisance we sought to do without. Preventing one from healing for a full day signed his death warrant, a sure-fire way to allow one to rest in peace after death." Havel replied rather smugly and gulped down some of the liquid. He sighed loudly as his wounds, burns and broken body parts mended themselves and relieved the remaining pain he felt.

Argon merely shook his head at the man's words. If that talisman would prevent him from healing for the remainder of the day when they were still far from a bonfire, he was in trouble. Usually he didn't mind the danger or the risks any area and its terrain posed, he had spent too long in this desolate place that such things were a walk in the park. The trouble only arose when one of two things in particular occurred; the loss of his ability to heal with Estus, and the problematic situation of soul count.

In truth, Argon agreed that he was a minimalist at times, the issue of soul's and humanity being the trigger to that part of him. Previously he would have just splurged it on weaponry and materials. The new diversion in his path of the Chosen Undead had prevented him from doing so, however, and the addition of people to his army of one hadn't been an easy situation to adapt to either.

Argon mentally groaned. He was short on blood and energy as it was. A careless move on his part when killing an annoying hollow and he'd be ripped from the plethora of precious soul's he had taken the time to cultivate and earn. It wasn't that he was attached to the only source of currency here like that idiot cleric back at Firelink but the idea of letting go of a count so high, even Andre would be drooling at, was a waste.

Then again, walking with souls in the tens of thousands was like slapping an aural decoy spell onto your back and walking around the Catacombs like nothing in Lordran was wrong. Perhaps he could rush to the Undead Merchant or just _any_ sane fellow out there, so he could empty whatever he could from his person. Many would have thought him foolish for thinking in such a way due to the rarity of that many souls collected by one person. In contrast, Argon saw it as weight off his shoulders. Too many souls caused a mass of hollows to hunt you down, the scent he gave off when packing that much heat was intense. Needless to say, the undead didn't want a repeat of being chased by over ten Berenike Warriors with wall shields throughout Sen's Fortress just because of ten-thousand measly souls in his back pocket.

_It would also be a shame to lose all the humanity I've accumulated thus far. Sure I, gave most of them to Quelaan but the few I have left need to be kept safe. Who knows how many other bonfire's I'll need to bolster along the way?_

Just as Argon was about to begin pulling out his trusty bag of repair powder, an idea so simple entered his mind that literally made him slap a hand against his mask, startling Priscilla that had been quietly conversing with Havel whilst collecting the broken shards of armour scattered around the room.

"Argon, are you alright?"

"I think the question you should be asking is 'are you sane?'." Havel corrected her and took another swig of Estus despite already being healed to the maximum. "What's wrong boy, spot a fly?"

The undead growled at the older man from behind his mask before drawing a soul capsule from his pouch. The two people in front of him gazed at his hand as it cradled the humanity sprite stored within.

"Oh, why thank you son. I've been needing to do something about this atrocious form of mine." Havel said with a sudden happiness in his voice as he jumped to his feet and reached for the sprite in Argon's hand.

"Huh, what are yo- Woah! Back off old man." he said pulling his hand back from the older undeads reach.

Havel regarded him with a wrinkled frown. "You're not going to even offer one to me in the state I'm in?! Selfish buffoon, and I was beginning to actually like you. Well not anymore!"

"Oh, shut it you annoying bag of bones." Argon groaned in response. Who knew the archbishop of the Church and Gwyn's ex-comrade in arms was such a drama queen?

"You'll get your fill when we reach a suitable bonfire. Right now, I need this in order to get us there." It was the truth, he had expended the last Homeward Bone he had at Blighttown, what a time to run out of the precious resource now of all times.

Without a second thought Argon crushed the sprite in his hand and released a breath a hadn't known he had been holding. He heard various snap's and crack's as his bones, organs and flesh mended to its original state faster than a sip of Estus would have been able to manage. At least now he wouldn't have to worry about being killed and losing his souls and humanity, plus he felt his stamina reserves revive itself. Sometimes he wished there was a mental bar only he could see that displayed how much health and stamina he had left. It would be easier than judging in the middle of a serious battle and he could actually calculate how many shots he could fire off from his Dragonslayer bow before he needed to rest.

"You say 'we' as if I'll be accompanying you there." Havel said in a sulky voice, breaking the undead from his thoughts. He turned his head to the older man and deadpanned. The now un-armoured bishop currently had his back to him whilst his arms were crossed over his chest in defiance. Priscilla gave him an apologetic smile for his troubles as he sighed for the umpteenth time that day.

_Childish old fart. And you call yourself a rock. Last time I checked, rocks don't sulk... or speak._

"Why would I consider joining your party in the first place?"

At this, the undeads grimace turned into a grin. He reached for the greatsword his companion offered to him as he walked back towards the stairwell and rested it across his back.

"Because my job as the Chosen Undead is to slay the Lord of Sunlight and his fellow gods'," His smile grew wider when Havel turned his bald head his way, like a child when tempted with an irresistible treat. "with that knowledge so freely given, do you still want to go separate ways?"

Havel looked at him and Priscilla for a while, considering the proposition before shrugging his shoulders and discarding the breastplate he currently wore to the floor. It made a loud crash due to its impressive weight before he walked up to the undead.

"I believe you have twisted my arm," he replied and returned Argon's flask to him. The undead nodded and was about to continue walking up the stairs when a large hand clapped his shoulder, pulling him back to face a half-hollowed archbishop.

"But first you're going to be giving me a replacement set of armour for the one you just broke, boy."

Argon sweat dropped and gave him a soft chuckle.

"Maybe I can work something out. You _are_ a pretty big guy, hollow form aside..."

* * *

Up above the trio of bickering being's both undead and goddess, a lone Black Knight stood motionless, silently observing the burning remains of what were once inhabitants of a small town from a stone balcony. The wind blew gently in the direction of the old church. He watched as the shinning specks of orange ash drifted away from the scene, taking the horrors and screams it had been born from far, far away where none would remember it.

The Knight breathed in deeply from his grotesque helm with twisted black horns, inhaling the death that those hooded thieves in the Lower Burg had caused before allowing it to coil in his empty soul.

He felt the festering of old and new hatred circulate within his armour. Old hate for the scourge of the Abyss that had caused this disaster to befall Lordran. Old hate for Izalith and its witch that had spawned the demon's that were once his friends, comrades and family. He focused his mind on the new hate that brewed within him, hate that made his swung his blade with more force and rush his many foes with more ferocity.

New hate for the hollowed undead, the foolish men and woman that had taken the title of 'Chosen' only to fall to their own greed and despair. He brewed the new hate for his King most, however. Hate for the way in which his brethren had been used like puppets against the ancient dragons, _fodder_ for their gusts of fire, ice and lightning. He experienced hate for the way his loyal service in the Shinning City was used to control him, to kill innocent human's that knew not the reason for the undead curse they were afflicted by.

And he felt _pain_ for the moment his physical form had been burnt and frozen all at the same time when his King had decided to relink the dying Flame. Even now as he stood guarding nothing but putrid air, he longed for the familiar feeling of his limbs again. The flame had blackened the armour he had proudly polished day and night, and additionally, it had also darkened his mind - along with obliterating his body - by revealing to him the shocking truth.

How sad it was to realise that the King you faithfully worshipped from the first day you came into existence only cared for his reign over Lordran. It was even sadder to uncover the fact that he would sacrifice anything - even his own firstborn - from revealing his ulterior motive the his equally disgusting kith.

Yet even after all the hate stirring within the Knight's platemail, after the many soul's he had slaughtered in vain and the lies he had blindly believed under the guise of obedience, he still couldn't pull himself away from the agonisingly ironic loyalty he showed to the God of Sunlight.

One would think discovering such a secret darker than Nito's resting place would snap any soldier out from any sense of devotion to such a rotten overlord, and that wouldn't be far from the truth.

However, people tend to overlook just how vast the influence of the gods really are. For after such time in service to a seemingly benevolent ruler, the repetition of duty never really does wear off with time. The Knight had first narrowed it down to the influence of Gwyn's divinity, thinking that he had the power not only to deceive the masses for centuries but also bind his subjects to servitude after death - for now in the Kiln he was anything but alive. Yet the Black Knight knew that it was not so.

The answer was actually so simple, that it had been staring him in the helm for decades now as he pondered and pondered on the same topic until his non-existent brain grew ragged. It was the pride all Knights of Anor Londo possessed. They had been born from the great Lord whether they liked it or not. Created from a sliver of his mere will alone that took down legions of terrifying winged beast's and carved fear into the many kingdoms bordering their powerful land. In their heart's was set the pathetic sense of remorse, guilt and abundant loyalty to death's end.

Even though Gwyn had lied, abused and trampled upon the Knight and his comrades, he still couldn't find it in him to utilize that hatred into anything more visceral. He couldn't, for the life of him, abandon his post in the Undead Burg guarding nothing but the dregs of an already fallen town.

It wasn't that he still wished to be useful or of service to anyone or anything. He was just a haunted soul trapped in his own armour, what care could he honestly possess? It was the fear that made him remain. The fear that walking away from the lie he had come to trust and believe in for his entire _life_ would mean the immediate decomposition of whatever remained of his consciousness.

It was truly ironic. He wanted to die, to fall into an eternal slumber like the Gravelord he used to be creeped out by. Now he understood the neutrality of the Death God. The Black Knight was suffering in this twisted metal he lived in, in fact he prayed every day for a worthy foe to claim his wailing soul.

Yet at the same time, the Knight also feared death. He feared what would come of him after his ethereal form left this world he had come to love and hate simultaneously. Did Heaven exist? He had thought Anor Londo was the true Heaven at first but now he was unsure… that beloved Kingdom had become a shadow of its former self after the Lady Gwynevere had departed with Flann, the God of Flame.

Was he to go to Hell instead? And if so, would it be better or worse than what he currently faced here in this empty land that slowly ate itself from the inside out? He had been told by Commander Ornstein once that people make their own Hell whilst living in fear of effigy's that didn't exist. Was this his Hell then? Technically he wasn't a body of flesh and blood, but a soul in living armour. Did that mean he was already dead? Was he already living a nightmare that would never end?

A lone hollow groaned near a set of old and broken stairs behind the Knight and he turned his body towards the sound, his grip on his greatsword tightening. It seemed that even after the fall of his monarch, duty still tugged the reigns of his consciousness. He watched as the hollow limped down the steps slowly, tumbling and righting itself only to repeat the same actions as before as it searched for something it could never truly be satisfied with; souls.

When the barely-clothed thing reached the foot of the stairs and lifted its ugly head his way, he began to stride forward assertively. The hollow seemed to recognize danger and immediately dived through the space separating them, using what remained of a straight sword as a weapon.

The Black Knight raised his shield and deflected the careless attack. It would take more than mindless swings to down such a being of intelligence anyways. With the guard of his shield raised, the Knight smashed it into the face of the hollow and listened as it wailed in fury and pain. As it stumbled backwards and swung around blindly, the Knight took another firm step forward and raised his blade skyward.

The beautiful carvings of the blade reflected in the afternoon sun as it stood stationary and the Black Knight offered the weak hollow a shard of pity before he brought his blade down upon its head. Crimson blood and brain matter splashed across his blade and leggings as the body before him was crushed from the brute force of the Black Knight's blow, cracking the sandstone floor below.

Before he could retrieve his blade from yet another fallen enemy, he heard more groanings on the level above him and rested his shield across his back. It seemed there was still much more work to be done in this dying land of failed warriors and forsaken gods.

He lifted his greatsword and raced up the steps, his armour jangling loudly and more hollows in the vicinity gaining his attention. The Black Knight was met by three light-armoured hollows brandishing sturdier armaments than the first he had killed. He took a step back before going into a deep crouch. The hollows spotted him and advanced frantically, shields up and swords behind them for a deep thrust. It was a good tactic, a tried and tested method capable of shutting off any escape routes for any would-be foes. However, it was a bad plan when the Knight before them had the same idea.

With a rush of impressive speed and force, the Black Knight shot forward, greatsword pulling the air with it as it broke through the first shield and skewered the hollow holding it. It gasped as its sword bounced off his breastplate and its body was thrust forcefully backwards into the next hollow that was also pierced in the same way. The last one stared from its position a few feet away from the Black Knight and his sword before strafing his right side cautiously.

This one possessed some cognitive function then...

The Knight ripped his blade free of the corpses with a well-timed flick of his wrist, sending their bodies crashing against the wall and ground so hard that they exploded in a burst of red. The hollow continued to back away from the Knight as he approached and stood stationary behind another set of stairs that led into a tower. He was about to take another taunting step forward when a slash against the shield on his back alerted him of a new enemy. He twisted on the spot and cleaved the head of a spear-wielding hollow from its shoulders before dashing forwards towards the previous one set in his sights.

The hollow froze in fear for a moment before pulling back his sword arm and thrusting forward. He would have managed to land a decent strike too… if the Knight hadn't used the momentum of his last attack to crater the ground with his large blade and uppercut the hollow with enough power to lift him into the air. As the hollow began to fall back to earth, the Black Knight used the opportunity to impale him on his mighty blade, causing another shower of crimson to coat his body like liquid rubies.

Without a second thought, he dropped the hollow from his blade and marched up yet another set of steps to meet three bare hollows with firebombs. He raised is sword like a wall of obsidian as they chucked the bombs his way before they exploded. Some of the flames created whiplash that curved round his blade and caught against his armour, but he wasn't fazed as he lowered the sword and broke the leg of one of the hollows with a strong kick. At least one advantage of possessing corrupted armour was that it was fire resistant.

He stomped on the fallen hollows head and impaled the next as he tried to light the fuse of another bomb. They both gurgled and groaned as they died. The Black Knight grabbed the last of the trio by the neck and began to squeeze. He watched impassively as the thing writhed and gasped for air, kicking and clawing at his gauntlet which only caused its dead skin to rip apart and bleed. The Knight briefly wondered why these things even needed air to begin with. They were dead, hollow and void of any need for the resource. It bothered him that such a vile creature of devious intent still required its lungs but couldn't really argue much, the dragons were the same even though they were technically immortal. Even he – as limbless as he was – had to breath in and out raggedly for some reason. He didn't understand why something neither living or dead required air either, but this _was_ the Land of Ancient Lords. Absurdity and unanswered questions were the only constant here now that all the hypocritical divinity had eloped, died or been exiled.

A sharp whistling noise sounded behind him before an arrowhead pierced his back. The Black Knight shifted but didn't waver. he turned his head to a small watchtower where a crossbowman stood, he had found his next target. With a tighter clenching of his fist a loud snap came from the struggling hollow and he dropped it to the floor carelessly before stomping to the foot of the tower's stairs and began to climb.

He heard the reloading of a bolt in the crossbow's chamber as he reached the platform and dodged right as said bolt whizzed past his helm. The archer dropped the weapon and made a frantic grab for the sword at his hip. The Knight reacted quickly by close-lining the hollow with his gauntlet and they both fell from the tower.

For a moment, the Black Knight briefly wondered if his neck would break from this fall, like how he had just killed that hollow before he crushed the archer with his weight. A loud gasp left his otherwise silent helm as the pain flared all over his body like a blast from a pyromancer's glove.

No, it seemed he was still alive. How unsatisfactory and simultaneously pleasing. Why had fate decided to make his life – if he could call it his life – more difficult, it would have been for the better if he had just crushed the vertebrae in his nec-

Ah. That was right, he didn't have a spine to injure. He was a tortured soul in armour.

He took a moment to rest against the ground, using the archer's corpse as a makeshift pillow as he thought about desperately he wanted to live yet die at the same time. The thought of living a second longer in this decayed system where he only lived to purge scores of hollows that wold just keep growing made him sick to his stomach. What was use of living when he had not a master to serve, and no actual use here in the lower levels of Lordran? He almost felt like plunging his own sword through his chest so that he could experience, just for a moment, the excruciating bliss of being freed from the confines of his cursed armour. He wished for death to take him, _prayed_ for Nito to hear his cries wherever the mass of skeletons and miasma was. Yet as he rose from his position on the floor and picked up his sword for the thousandth time, he couldn't bring himself to perish just yet.

There was this new feeling in him, a feeling he hadn't even known existed inside of him. He felt alive, free - and for the first time - happy. It was a strange thing to think of. He had been all those things under the leadership of Lord Gwyn and the kind tutelage of Commander Ornstein, living with his comrades and slaying foes for the honour of Anor Londo. However, this felt vastly different from those anecdotes he lived through eons go. At this moment, in this space, while in the state of near insanity he was currently in; his soul soared like an eagle above the clouds. He was unperturbed by the endless hollows he had to slaughter, or the amount of undead he would need to test to determine their worth as the true Chosen Undead.

The Black Knight walked to the centre of the square walkway in front of him that opened to the lower areas of Lordran - now dubbed the Undead Burg - and planted his blade point first into the ground. It would be a lie to deny the enjoyment of the breeze that squeezed between his chainmail and the warmth of the sun that shone above him, whether it truly was a grand illusion of Lord Gwyndolin or not. Perhaps he _could_ find it in him to live just a little bit longer? Just until the Chosen Undead - whoever the hell that really was - had relinked the Flame and brought peace to this crying land. Surely it wasn't too much to ask for?

"My, _my_... you look positively _lonely._"

The Black Knight turned his body to the voice slowly and lifted his blade to rest against the spiked collar of his armour. Through his visor he saw what looked to be another Knight like himself, however this one wore a cowl instead of the standard helm and he was about a foot shorter than the Knight. Fixed across his back rested a greatsword like the Knight's but composed of an entirely different metal and design, a Darkwraith's weapon of choice.

So this was what a corrupted human looked like. The man's voice sounded like nails scratching against dry bone, and the blood staining the armour he had most likely stolen from the corpse of one his brethren had already formed an ugly smear akin to red mud. The Knight had seen and engaged many other wraiths of the sort in combat before, watching for their glowing left hand's and unstoppable flow of attacks. They were a silent bunch - no different to the Knight himself in that respect - but the aura of malice and death they all displayed with those skull-face masks of theirs and gear more twisted than his own, was a sight the Knight had hoped never to see again.

This wraith, however, seemed to be much more different. He was hunched, his arms hanging uselessly in front of him as if they were lame. It was odd for any Darkwraith to show such a bored expression when facing a Knight of Gwyn for the simple fact that those abyssal being's lusted for soul's powerful enough to satiate their depravity.

But this was no ordinary wraith. The Black Knight knew that not all Darkwraith's were human or undead, he had cut one open with a slash of his mighty blade to prove it. The original wraiths were manifestations of dark desire's and filled with ominous vapour that could putrefy even the crystal waters of Oolacile. He needed to be cautious if this one engaged him in battle. This particular one looked be something in between human and undead, though that was nearly the same thing. He couldn't accurately name it, but this wraith just seemed… off. Either way, humans were an unpredictable race, but _undead_ were an entirely different matter altogether, especially after siding with the very party that sought to destroy the world rather than cure it. Coming into contact with a Darkwraith that seemed undead but felt like another entity entirely was a larger problem. There would be many disadvantages in this battle due to how unknown the Knight's foe was. Yet even as he thought that it was clear the man dressed in Black Knight armour wasn't going to let him walk free. Good. As far as he was concerned, he wasn't going to allow the Darkwraith to escape either. There was still work to be done in Lordran, whether the Knight wanted to follow Gwyn's last order or not, and this wraith was the perfect example of that work; to purge all disparity.

"I must ask, _why_ is it that you knight's refuse to _speak_? You scream in pure _agony _when the killing blow is dealt, so why do you all act so... _mute_?" The wraith asked as he swung his arms from side to side as he walked, as if trying to pass the time and ease his boredom.

"Personally, to stop speaking entirely would be a _death_ in itself," The Black Knight watch the wraith draw his greatsword and straighten his spine. He took the opportunity to fully face his next opponent and ready himself.

"But I suppose that doesn't matter now, does it? In the end, we're all just _waiting _idly by to end the lives we never asked to be granted in the _first_ _place_."

The Knight rushed forward on impulse, greatsword raised like a terrifying guillotine. It was just like a Darkwraith to bend the meaning of words and ideals to suit their twisted personalities. Silver tongues like theirs was the reason his duty here in the lower cities and towns of Lordran had been made that much more difficult.

Even so, the Black Knight felt the familiar excitement bubble up inside his empty armour and prepared to make mincemeat of the wraith before him. It was a crass thought he would have denied if anyone even alive would bother to listen to his voiceless opinion, but he was certain he was becoming just a touch more human than he had originally thought.

And to be honest, he didn't particularly mind it all that much. Who knew feeling emotions of such strange creature's was so exhilarating?

* * *

"How in Lloyd's name am I supposed to move around in this excuse for armour you've oh-so-graciously blessed me with?"

"Hey, don't blame the armour, old man. It ain't my fault you're too big to even fit into Tarkus' gear. If it's this difficult to find something decent for you to wear, then I strongly recommend you _not_ reverting to your human form."

"What's that supposed to mean?! You calling me fat, brat?"

"I'm saying you're bigger than normal clothing you old fart, now STOP BLOODY SHOUTING!"

"Um, Argon... maybe you should follow your own advice."

The undead stopped dead in his tracks at the head of their trio and turned his head to her slowly. Priscilla almost took a step back at the action, she understood that he was angry, Sir Havel had been doing nothing but engaging in arguments worse than the last from the time they departed from the base of the tower. She wouldn't be surprised if he lashed out at her because of the mental strain he was taking – not that she would exactly welcome it with a smile, she had feelings too – and besides that, he was too focused on spending all those souls of his. She braced herself for a biting retort but instead smiled when his voice quivered in embarrassment.

"W-Was I really that loud?" He asked meekly.

"You damn near popped my eardrums, boy. Keep in mind we old folk are frail too." Havel replied on her behalf whilst trying in vain to cross his arms without snapping the breastplate he wore in two.

"Shut it, goat." Argon hissed, all meekness gone and turned back around to lead them to whatever exit there was in this tower of stairs, stairs and more stairs.

"_Baaa_." the undead grit his teeth at the childish reply and continued stomping up the spiral stairwell.

_Why the hell does this freaking Kingdom have so many damned stairs?!_

Argon had thought that making the archbishop join their party would be both a benefit to their knowledge of the land, and a tank that would be able to keep dangerous foes and bosses busy whilst he and Priscilla dealt finishing blows. Now, however, he just thought as the older undead as a nagging burden worse than that pessimistic idiot for a sorcerer in Firelink. The mental battle he had to endure thus far was torture to the undead.

It hadn't been Argon's fault in the slightest, even the goddess could back him up. All he had done was given the strong armour of Tarkus to Havel as better covering than his destroyed rock gear. How the hell was the undead supposed to know that Havel was a brute in physique as well as on the battlefield?

The man had barely managed to fit his legs into the black chainmail leggings and had an even more difficult time slipping the heavy breastplate over his broad chest that looked as if someone had plastered a thick wall of meat onto an even thicker slab of rock. The man's body was so oddly proportioned that the undead couldn't understand how Havel's legs managed to bear the weight of his upper-half.

As of late, he and Argon had just conformed to throwing insults at one another as they walked up the seemingly never-ending flight of stairs. It was like a game of back and forth knife-throwing when he thought about it. While his cross-breed companion had spoken her dislike of the name-calling, it was actually greatly pleasing for the younger undead to hear the old man cuss under his breath and go silent when a certain jab at his size was entered into the equation. Sometimes Argon swore the ex-friend of Gwyn was actually meant to be born a woman with the way he was so self-conscious.

"How long until we reach the entrance, anyways?" Argon asked as he tugged at the hem of his cloak. He had needed to change his gear after the older man had literally wiped the floor with him, so he had donned a comfortable pair of trousers and the gold rimmed cloak that Quelana had gifted to him. It was a shame too, he had liked the breathable clothing of the painting guardians.

"You're asking me that why exactly?"

"For the simple reason that you've been trapped her for over a bloody century." Argon growled.

"I may have been down here for that long, but it doesn't mean I know every nook and cranny of the damned place."

"You mean you've never bothered _looking_!"

Havel shrugged, "I was hollow for a long time, couldn't do it then now could I?"

"What about _after_ you were hollow, eh?!" A large tick mark formed above the undeads eye. This old man was asking for it.

"I uh... didn't think of that I guess."

There was silence for a full minute until...

"You're a complete waste of space, 'ya know that?"

"WHAT'D YOU SAY, BOY?!"

"I SAID YOU DESERVE TO BE TEN FEET UNDER BECAUSE SIX WOULDN'T BE ENOUGH TO COVER THAT OVERSIZED GUT OF YOURS!"

"I can't **believe **you just said that! I'm gonna cave you into a wall!"

"What's that, wanna rumble old man? Did you forget how I pinned you to the floor like the trash you are?"

"You're the trash if you think making a woman subdue me with magic is even _considered_ a win, you sissy!"

"** _ENOUGH!_ **" Priscilla shouted, silencing both of them into shock.

The goddess had been silent the entire time, only offering small words to placate the growing blaze the two undead had been feeding with their needless bickering. At first, she had agreed to let them argue it out – they were men after all – but after the constant back and forth had been grating on her sensitive hearing with her being in the _middle_ of the two, she had changed her mind rather quickly.

"Can the two of you _please_ stop fighting like children?" she said in a kinder voice than the demonic tone more fitting for a more masculine Gwyndolin she had used earlier. "We've finally reached the upper entrance to the tower."

Both undead looked at her and then at one another before putting their heads down in shame and nodding quietly, not a word spoken to question the cross breed. She smiled brightly and stood in front of said door, patiently waiting for Argon to open it like the gentleman she knew he was somewhere deep down. Said undead wasted no time in rushing to the door, unlocking it with his masker key and opening it wide for her to happily walk out. He waited for Havel to do the same and the man did so without sparking another argument before Argon followed and closed the door with a soft _click._

The trio gazed around the familiar circular platform but breathed a sigh of relief when an opened door in front of them displayed the sight of the setting sun over a small town.

"Ahh, finally my first glimpse at the bright sun!" Havel jeered with arms outstretched, "Well... what's left of today's one, I suppose."

"Damned Illusion." Argon muttered under his breath which Havel didn't hear but Priscilla did. She turned to him and smiled in a way that made his heart speed up five times its current speed. He hated that the sun was nothing but a fake conjured up by a god that feigned honesty, but he was also glad they had all reached some sort of civilization.

"Well, where to from here masked man?" Havel questioned rather cheerily. Perhaps not telling him that the sun was fake was a good idea for now... at least until the brute had had the chance to be updated with all the happenings of Lordran, "I'm unfamiliar with this part of town and our cross breed here has most likely only seen the outside of the painting she was trapped in since childhood. Your help guiding us would be appreciated."

Argon raised an eyebrow. For an old man he was still pretty intuitive. Not only that, but the curt comments he gave offered more insight into the days of the old gods' than he thought possible. It was good thing they hadn't decided to slay him then and there. Besides his skills and memory, it would have been inhumane of the undead to grant such a premature death to a foe he didn't hold any ill-will to. They hadn't duelled like proper undead anyways, so he couldn't have killed the annoying oaf even if he had wanted to, the guilt would have been too much.

"I don't recall every saying that I _wouldn't _guide you around Lordran." Argon huffed. "but for what it's worth, this will be an eye-opener for the two of you."

Priscilla and Havel turned to the masked undead and frowned at him as he placed one hand on his hip and the other pointing outwards to the scenery beyond.

"Welcome to the Undead Burg."

Priscilla gazed out at the vast walkways of sandstone, square houses and wooden constructs formed for renovations long forgotten. The stairway to their left held a sizeable chunk of its banister missing, most likely from some explosion and flecks of orange flashed before Priscilla's eyes. She took a closer look and discovered it to be ashes from a fire that still burned somewhere nearby and made a move to take a step forward before her eye's widened and she gagged in disgust.

"Uh... something wrong?" Argon asked cluelessly.

"It's stinks down here!" she replied and blocked her nose with her fingers.

"Well duh, it's called the _Undead _Burg for a reason. You expected it to be like walking through a field of daisies with everything we've been through thus far?"

"But this is worse than anything I've ever smelled before." the cross breed whined and gagged again as the horrid scent touched the tip of her tongue. Argon watched as she closed a hand over her mouth and squirmed in disgust, he eye's scrunched up as she tried in vain to eliminate the air from her body. The undead sighed before taking a step forward and down the steps before them, a hand firmly gripped onto a complaining goddess as they all descended in the lower levels of Lordran. Havel had even plucked a handkerchief out of nowhere and handed it to her so that she wouldn't have to endure the smell, but she just shook her head and gagged even more.

It was surprising to see the archbishop be kind to her after nearly killing her, sure, but it was more of a surprise to witness his female companion react this badly to the mere smell of rot. She had lived in worse for _centuries_ and she was complaining because of some burning corpses?!

_Yeah, royalty my foot. The only thing princess-like about her is the way she complains._

They continued along their path towards what seemed like a pass towards another level, an alleyway and a small cottage. They immediately noticed the dead hollows scattered around the floor and spilt up without a word. Priscilla whimpered at the smell of the fallen corpses but adopted a brave face, nonetheless. Argon climbed a tall ledge with Havel's help to get into the cottage and motioned for them to keep an eye out for anything. Whilst the undead searched, Havel decided to make his way down the bloody steps into the alleyway. He drew a large, petrified tree hanging from his back and two-handed it with ease as he took slow, cautious steps downwards leading to another corpse at the foot of the stairs.

While the Demon's Hammer the younger undead had given him was perfect for defeating stronger foes and shattering even sturdier armour, the archbishop still yearned for the comfortable feeling of the cold black rock of his Dragontooth. Its texture was smooth compared the rough bark of this ashen tree he was lumbering around, and its weight was more reassuring to have on hand - and let's not forget longer to deliver a greater range of damage.

Havel sighed wistfully before giving the corpse a good kick to ensure it was dead. When the thing's body flew into the wall and made a loud cracking sound the bishop smiled in satisfaction and moved on. He had no choice but to endure the conditions of his armament and armour for now until he could find a more suitable set of gear, or maybe a smith that would make something for him with the right amount of souls. He briefly wondered if that giant blacksmith still lived in Lordran.

The massive being had been the only neutral and generally pleasant thing about the Shinning City that Havel had really liked, save for Gough of course. Whenever he had attempted to make casual conversation with the giant, he had always been met with a deep voiced refusal. The smith had prided himself on his work mending and beating weaponry into art with those tiny tools of his, he never cared for small talk - pun intended - and didn't have a care in the world besides how well those swords of his were ascended. Perhaps the archbishop could pay him a visit, he had been the one to create his armour after all.

Havel snorted at the thought and continued looking around. Even if the giant was still alive due to his unrivalled longevity, the undead would never step foot or boot back inside those hypocritical walls of gold. He had been made a fool by both Gwyn and Seath, betrayed and left to rot in that tower when he had caused a revolt for all the right reasons. Havel had thought the Sunlight God would be for the humans, for the _people_. It was one of the reasons he had become an archbishop in their Church, to unite gods' and human alike and ensure a peace that would last until time itself expired.

He had been a fool not to listen to that twisted serpent that dripped with malice for all thing's divinity. Gwyn hadn't given a damn about equality between humanity and the gods. He had only sought to rule over them using Havel as the blinded mouthpiece to keep the weaker race in check. Why hadn't he seen it sooner like the giant race and abandoned that slowly decaying Kingdom? Maybe his people would have survived the purge after turning undead? Maybe he wouldn't have had to seek out that evil ember and cause his men unneeded slaughter to begin with?

He didn't have the answer but there was one thing that resounded clearly in his mind as he observed the broken pathway between the alleyway and an undercover passage under the level Priscilla stood on. Argon, this annoying and enigmatic undead that had bested him, was not like the other undead he had come across before. His words, actions and thinking were on par with an Emperor - though the rock of a man was loathed to admit it - and he held that important essence inside of him that somehow drew Havel into his little circle. An essence of realization, of hatred, regret, pain and anguish. The voice behind that mask that spoke of experiences too great for his tiny body to bear. The voice of someone that possessed wisdom and courage ahead of their years. It was also due to a factor about the intelligent undead that caused Havel to even agree to join his party.

He had also discovered the truth of this ancient land.

He didn't mean the truth of whatever divinity still alive in this land had cooked up, the bishop meant the truth about Gwyn. Havel was no fool. He had lived centuries, hunted numerous undead and mastered the many wicked ways of that albino dragon to know enough to last four lifetimes. This undead he travelled with _knew_ he had been lied to. He could tell from the moment their battle had ended. How could he _not_ when Havel had the exact same reaction towards the world around him? That silent suspicion of everyone that dared converse with him, the way his words indirectly hinted that he knew more than he less people believe… it was the exact persona anyone would possess when faced with a truth so shocking, it questioned your very existence and purpose. The epiphany was like a burst of endorphins to his sluggish bloodstream that made him hop from one foot to the other in pure excitement. What was more intriguing was that the undead had offered him what no other before him had done before; a shot at claiming his revenge against his age-old nemesis, Gwyn.

The mere fact that Argon had managed to come this far without losing any and all sanity in this accursed land was admirable, the fact that he had promised Havel a chance to face Gwyn despite knowing the perilous journey ahead was just captivating. He was cocky, yes, but not in a way that would hinder their approach towards the goal at hand. This undead was actually certain he would survive long enough to reach the Kiln. That alone was more than the bishop had hoped for.

Havel backtracked his steps and approached a balcony that would have given a pretty view of the lower Burg were it not for the fact that there were multiple bonfire's lit fuelled by cacophonies of burning human corpses. So that was what was causing the stink. He and Argon were both cut from the same cloth in the sense that the stench of death didn't bother them in the slightest, but the cross breed was different. He didn't really blame the girl, the smell of burnt human meat was hardly appetizing to any other than mutated animals and demon's from Izalith. In retrospect, however, he was impressed at how she was able to keep on doing despite the air being almost toxic to her smaller body. He knew she was partly of divine descent, so she could handle that much but for any lady to stomach such things besides a female warrior or knight, was astonishing.

Perhaps it was _because_ she was a cross breed that she could endure such things? He had said nothing about her parents besides the fact that she had ties to the Sunlight God, but he would have been a fool not to notice the draconic strain of genes she was born with.

White hair, nearly the shade of silver and shinning scales that decorated the back of her neck and hands like jewellery were an unmistakable trait. One he could only match with that pathetic excuse for an everlasting dragon.

_Seath._

It was blasphemous and purely atrocious to find out that that thing and Queen Gwynevere had copulated in the first place. What had Gwyn been thinking to allow that scum to come near his daughter without a care in the world? He had refused to listen to him when Havel's spies had found out the scaleless fiend had been abducting maidens for his cruel experiments, so why had he made it an unbreakable rule for the thing to be Gwynevere's personal escort and guard in the first place? Any idiot with a brain would have put two and two together that she was smitten for the ugly serpent with wings.

What was even more of a shock to the bishop's wise eyes was the fact that the Lord of Sunlight hadn't batted an eye when his daughter had given birth. The now undead bishop had expected him to be filled with righteous fury like all those years ago and torn that dragon to little pieces of fodder for deflowering his only girl - Havel knew he would, given the circumstances. But no, instead the poor child of Gwynevere had been exiled after just five years of staying in the halls of Ancient Lords. His ex-comrade had summoned a mental painter to craft a prison for offspring he despised without reason. That traitorous snake had walked free, not giving a damn about his own child, stating that it was little more than a failed experiment whilst Gwynevere had suffered in anguish. She was truly to blame but what man couldn't feel sorry for her despite the predicament she placed herself into, she had just lost her own flesh and blood after all.

Havel sniffed the air and steeled himself. What had been done was irreversible and no amount of arguing could turn it back around. He decided he would remain silent about the cross-breed's history, as selfish as it was. He could already see that she hated the gods' and that was enough for him, adding more fuel to the fire would just blow the whole damned place up anyways.

The undead turned on his heel, completely satisfied that this area had been cleared when a flash of something shiny caught his eye. Havel turned and stared at the object resting against the ground and frowned. Who in their right minds would leave an enchanted ring lying on the floor so carelessly? With a grunt he bent over, sucking in his gut as he did so, and picked up the item. Maybe Argon was right about him being too large, the muscles he had gained from wielding his armour and weaponry had made him a literal wall of flesh. However, now that he was undead and near hollow, his muscles were chunks of old meat hanging for dear life against wrinkled skin and bone.

He stared at the ring in his hands and recognition flashed across his mind. This was a powerful ring indeed, one of the Tearstone series. A lucky find that could match his own enchanted ring in ability. Hold on a minute, could he even manage to wear more than one magical ring? His aptitude for magic wasn't vast and the only miracles he knew were healing scriptures and guidance...

"Sir Havel, are you okay down there?" he heard the goddess call in a softer voice than usual and he pocketed the ring. He could think about it later when they were in a safer place.

He jogged up the steps and reunited with the cross breed that was currently crouching on the stairs leading to a higher level of the town. She turned her head to him and placed a finger on her lips as he approached. The bishop furrowed his brow and was about to ask what he should be silent for when the sound of blades clashing sounded against his eardrums.

Without a word, he silently lowered himself to her level and peeked over the steps to see two Black Knight's duking it out in what seemed to be a deathmatch, the bodies of hollows scattered around them indicated who had caused the corpses behind them.

"What reason would Knights of Gwyn have for duelling like this?" she whispered to him, a hand on the scythe resting on her back just in case. "And what strange armour. I haven't seen such twisted metal before on a servant of the Great Lord before."

"These are the Black Knight's," Havel replied softly. "they accompanied Gwyn to the Kiln so that he could link the First Flame." She turned her face to him in deeper confusion.

"But how could their armour be so sinister? What could cause such a change?"

"The First Flame." he said. Priscilla seemed to understand and turned back to the fight, watching as one of the Knight's blocked a devastating strike from his comrade before using his shield as a battering ram to break the other's defence.

"When Gwyn bolstered the dying Flame, it incinerated everything within the Kiln, the loyal Knight's included. They became nothing more than husks within their blackened armour, and their weapons were mutated into grotesque blades capable of facing the strongest of demons without aid.

The goddess nodded her head and they watched as the two Knight's clashed again, one using his elbow to temporarily stagger the other Knight before leaping back and thrusting his blooded greatsword forward. The Knight with the shield twisted out of the thrust and swiped downwards. A burst of crimson came from the other Knight's shoulder and he raised his sword hand to block the next strike that would have torn his upper body from its waist. They continued to dance around one another; strafing, colliding, counter-attacking and blocking as if it were a performance in a grand hall.

Havel observed the fighting style of each and noticed the differences amongst the various blows and swipes. Whilst one fought with the proper poise and skill of a true Knight of Gwyn, the other was more unorthodox. He flailed his sword around as if it were an extension of himself while his other hand remained limp like a paralysed appendage. He also noticed how the same Black Knight sported a black cowl rather and the standard helm of malevolence.

"We should warn Argon not to interfere. Even with the three of us joining the fray, two Black Knight's is too great a risk." Havel stated and prepared to leave the battle scene as quietly as he could when the masked face of a certain undead appeared in front of him.

"Oh! For Lloyd's sake boy, learn to announce your presence." the archbishop said breathlessly as he held a hand above his heart. He may have been the immovable Rock, but that scare nearly gave him an undead heart-attack.

"Apologies old man," Argon replied and pulled Havel back into a crouch next to Priscilla. "this fight just caught my interest."

Havel grunted and shrugged off his hand before watching the fight again. Leave it to the Chosen Undead to find two Knights duelling a form of good-natured entertainment.

"It is funny that two Knights of Gwyn would battle while on the same side."

"And Black Knight's at that," the younger undead added in excitement. He was finally getting to witness a deathmatch between two powerhouses at work. It was as if his age-old wish had come true!

"Is it really that intriguing?" Priscilla asked with a frown. Personally, she couldn't care less about the entire situation. Watching two beings kill each other was not the sort of sport she indulged in, both as a lady and a person in general.

"Are you kidding me? Black Knights are like the nightmare of all undead." Argon said, turning to her. "Although it's not that difficult to defeat one once you've properly watched their movements, they can be a real pain to deal with when traversing important parts of Lordran. They can be so dangerous, in fact, that just one hit from those menacing blades of theirs can put down a lightning-breathing drake."

The cross breed gawked at the two men next to her. "They're capable of doing that much?!" Drakes were not secret to any inhabitant of the Kingdom. They were the farthest descendent of the Everlasting Dragons, smaller than a Wyvern but fierce in battle. Ordinary Silver Knights were no match for the creature's alone, that was the reason they hunted in groups of six with dragonslayer bows on their backs. Moreover, it was the reason the Elite Four of Gwyn had been tasked with the elimination of any scale-back creature with wings because only they had the individual power to best the beast's alone.

To hear that such creatures could be defeated by a single swing from these Black Knight's was almost incomprehensible. Now she understood Havel's reluctance, if he lost but an arm whilst engaging the two of those Knight's his advantage would be lost.

She was about to suggest that they divert from their path in favour of not encountering these terrifying foes, when Argon shushed her with his hand and looked up toward the sky. Havel followed his gaze and frowned when he saw nothing but darkening sky.

"What in Lordran are you doing now? You think we've got time to sit around daydream-"

"Can you hear that?" he asked, ignoring the older man's words.

Havel shut his mouth and tried to hear something other than the clashing of great swords. When his hearing picked up on nothing he scowled again. "Get your head out of the sewer's, boy. There's nothing out here but-"

"Sir Havel."

"What is it now?" the man groaned and looked at the cross breed. She had apparently caught onto something that he didn't, and for the briefest of moment's he wondered if age and all that time wearing his helmet had dulled his sense of sound.

Priscilla sniffed the air a few times before she caught the scent of something and looked back to Argon who nodded in confirmation. It was apparent that they had discovered something else that Havel hadn't. He waited patiently for them to relay the information to him.

"I can hear something coming down from above us, but I'm not sure what." Argon said with a grunt.

"When you mean something, do you mean-"

"-Something extremely dangerous." Priscilla finished and placed a hand on Argon's shoulder. It was about time they left this area.

"Alright, I understand that but where should we retreat to?" the bishop asked with a hand stroking the beard he had growing on his jaw. "I thought I saw another level in the tower leading to the outer wall."

Argon nodded, "It leads to the Old Church of the Parish. If we can reach it then we can bypass the Knight's here and reach the Lower Burg. There's a waterway there we can use to reach Firelink Shrine, a suitable sanctuary for now."

"Then that's where we're head-" Havel began but stopped when he heard the loud flapping of wings and hot air press against his shoulders. This was odd indeed, he wasn't aware of any winged monsters on this side of Lordran.

"Wyvern." Argon said quickly and shot to his feet. He grabbed both Havel and Priscilla's hands and began to rush for the alleyway in the lower level. As his companion's rushed to it with him, they noticed a large shadow descend above them, blocking out the light like a gargantuan shield of darkness with wings.

"Crap, Wyvern!" the undead shouted and shoved his companions down the steps before diving head first as a torrent of flames enveloped the area they were just standing in.

Argon felt the heat of the flames lick against his back and he gasped as the aftershock flung his body across the alleyway and into a shocked Havel. They crashed against the floor in a clatter of armour and the bishop groaned from the weight the younger undead added to his own.

Just when both undead thought things couldn't get any worse, a mighty roar was heard that screeched against their ears and stunned them to pained silence. They remained silent moments after the Wyvern roared and heard the creature's loud puffing, like deep grunts from inside an oversized cauldron. Then, as if the thing was pissed at life itself, the trio watched as more flames burnt the area black and curled around the buildings like snakes before the Wyvern beat its great wings and took off, roaring loudly in the distance.

"That was no Wyvern, you fool." Havel snarled at Argon, who was still on top of the big man. "And what are still doing on top of me? Do I _look_ like the cross breed you hang onto like a tick?" he shoved the undead off him and Argon hit the ground hard.

"Oof!"

"Serves you right," the bishop said and turned to a blushing cross breed that was currently staring wide-eyed into space. Havel just sighed and held out a hand for her to take. What was with the youth of today, couldn't they just admit their feelings, face whatever decision arrived and move on? He swore that if this constant embarrassment continued without proper actions he'd lose all the hair on his face too.

"Of course it was a Wyvern." Argon replied as Priscilla accepted Havel's hand and stood to her feet. "That one had red scales, two legs and a vicious blast to it."

"And your point is?" Havel asked.

"My point is that _that_ particular creature is somewhat notorious to us undead here in the Parish." Havel motioned for him to continue. Dragons were thought to have been slain long ago by the trusted Knights of Gwyn. Havel had assumed that there weren't any left in the land at all with how fine a job Ornstein and Gough had done purging and collecting the heads of all those winged lizards.

"That, my dear Havel, is the Hellkite Dragon. You wouldn't want to tango with it unless you have enough strength in that club of yours to bring down a mountain… although I'm not entirely certain why we still call it a dragon."

The archbishop considered his words for a moment before nodding. Argon was an insufferable fool that he would sooner slam into a wall than trust with his life, but it was obvious that the charismatic undead never lied when it came to information.

"Anyways, we should go through that upper level now."

"Is that wise?" the cross breed asked. "Those two Black Knights were fighting there. Dragon fire or not, their armour should be near impervious to any flame damage after being charred by the First Flame itself."

"Indeed," Argon sang and dusted the back of his cloak. He was glad he had chosen to wear the Izalith garb now, who knew it was that resistant to fire?

"We'll mow them down if they still remain the least bit able to fight."

Havel choked on the Estus he was drinking and turned to the undead. "Are you insane? Those are Black Knight's, not hollows. How can you possible expect to best them?"

"They've been trading blow for blow from before we saw them so it's no joke that they're injured quite a bit." he said adjusting his mask before pulling his gloves on tighter. "besides that, they were hit point blank with dragon fire. Whether you're resistant or not, it'll do immense damage to your body."

His companions couldn't argue with him there, he might have been overly confident but was also a sound strategist when it came to anything covert or combat-based.

"Fine then, let's move out." Havel seconded, and the trio rushed up the stairs, weapons drawn and guards up as the fire cleared, revealing scorched sandstone below.

They dashed up the final set of stairs and prepared to fight tooth and nail. When the remaining flames settled they rejoiced to see nothing but a prone Black Knight resting on the ground. It seemed the attack from the Hellkite had been enough to render even these monotonous monsters powerless.

Argon offered a few words to guide them down the right path and they all turned to a declining walkway. Excitement bubbled in Argon's chest as he led Priscilla and Havel to the closest bonfire. They had been through the worst of the day and had come out on top, with a new addition to their party to boot.

With their numbers expanding like this, they would be able to collect those Lord Soul's in no time. A genuine smile graced the undeads masked face as they slew a half-dressed undead and continued forward. The real war was just beginning.

* * *

Inside the cottage next to the watchtower, behind the dirty window stood a Black Knight with a cowl, his gaze set on the back of the masked undead outside. He reached up a hand and placed it against the glass of the window, a crooked smile forming on his pale face.

"Looks like I finally _found you_."

The wraith had been looking for a way to ease his boredom since Kirk had given him an account of his duel with the undead. How better to do so than to engage a Black Knight in battle, and the cherry on top was that he had met the very soul he'd been _dying_ to find. How fate had a way of linking two sides of the same coin.

The Darkwraith placed his other hand on the left side of his face, softly petting the black veins with the underside of his glove and smiling broadly. He could feel it from this distance, how deeply the corruption had overtaken the undeads mind and soul. It was almost there, almost ready for harvesting that the wraith could practically _smell_ it. It wouldn't be long now. Just a small push and the time would come to him to... reunite with his significant other.

With a shaky breath, Lithecore dropped his hands to his sides and stretched his smile so wide, the ends of his mouth began to cut from the exertion.

"I can't _wait_ for us to see eye to eye again, perhaps _then_ you'll finally remember..."

Lithecore turned away from the window as a vortex of black and noxious purple appeared behind him.

"_Remember_ who we really are and bring _judgement_ upon this wicked world."

* * *

**I figured that since I've been making chapters of 8k and 9k in length, and you all deserved a special chapter with double for your trouble. I hope you enjoyed this eleventh chapter as much as I did.**

**I'm also so bloody excited, the demo for Final Fantasy VII was just released!!! Have you guys had a chance to play it? It's freaking AWESOME!**

**And they also FINALLY released the game for One Punch Man (*faints from too much excitement) I love this year!**

**Aside from all that, however, I'd like to explain some things in this chapter in case anything confused you guys (but of course it didn't, you people are all geniuses!)**

**1\. I mention that when Argon and gang use and collect soul's and humanity, it's via something called a 'soul capsule'. I decided to add this bit in since it didn't really seem believable for the player in game to just haul out a boatload of souls from some infinite pouch and crush it without said souls rushing away from him to the Heavens above. While it can be argued that the reason the souls stay in the player's hand is due to Lordran's weird convolution or some other idea that keeps them tethered to the Kingdom, they still need to be encapsulated into something to effectively 'crush', understand what I'm getting at?**

**2\. Argon's mask is something I don't go into much detail with. I do this so that you focus more on the reason he wears it rather than the mask itself. As you already know, Argon is contagiously optimistic and happy-go-lucky. However, he also has his own moments of deep depression and sudden bipolar tendencies when half-hollow. On the surface plot, he wears that plain mask as afront to block out the terror he feels deeply engraved into his eyes. Although this sounds cheesy, realistically nobody would be able to smile normally when facing monsters and things so horrific Medusa herself would turn to stone. FromSoftware did a great job freaking us the hell out with how ugly these main bosses and enemies look, imagine how we'd wet our pants if they were real? **

**3\. He's also got this abyssal corruption that makes his face all fugly and stuff, but that isn't the reason he wears it entirely. I will explain it in later chapters and include a lovely flashback of his last moment's as a human if that's what the story boils down to.**

**4\. The killer finishing move against Havel. I took a page out of My Hero Academia's Season 2 Sport's Festival here (woah, that's a lot of camel case 0o0). During the battle between Todoroki and Midoria, the entire platform implodes due to the rapid decrease and increase in temperature due to Tordorki's ice and fire. I decided to use that as it would have been a sure-fire way to disarm the brute without costing Argon or Priscilla an arm or leg. Since the implosion was caused via physics and not magic, Havel's armour couldn't do much to absorb the blow, and because centuries had gone by since he could repair his armour, it's safe for me to say that it was weakened enough to be destroyed by external forces… still, that being said, some of you might find a reason to logically disarm my reasoning. If I'm wrong and this theory was actually pretty good on my part, then yay me :D**

**5\. When Argon shout's 'undead smash', I was referring to All Might in that aspect. I'm a Boku no Hero fan but not to the extreme, I just thought it would make the story more interesting.**

**6\. The Black Knight. Since not many people put much effort into the servants of Gwyn due to them just being annoying pitfalls and soul drainer's during your playthrough, I thought of giving you the perspective of one such Knight. Whether it was a waste of time or interesting is your decision I guess, thought I'd do it since I did the same for the painting guarding in Chapter 2.**

**7\. Lithecore meets Argon. People hate this character since it's like a generic thing I think most DS writer's do, I'm not entirely certain. What I am certain about is that our Darkwraith plays an important role in this fic, and that's comic relief.**

**-_no, it's not._ **

**What the bloody hell are you still doing here?!**

**-_providing comic relief._ **

**Oh, ha ha, very humorous.**

**-_I thought so too._ **

**Really, I'm dying right now, it's too much. Please stop.**

**_-that's what she said._ **

**Okay, that's enough out of you. Why are you actually here?**

**_-you made the authors note too long again._ **

**I was just explaining things!**

**_-did anyone ask for an explanation?_ **

**Well... no.**

**_-then stop it._ **

**I, well... okay.**

**_-I feel bad for that Black Knight that was set alight._ **

**Feel bad for me, I'm the one being verbally abused by myself!**

**_-then you need help. Seriously, see a doctor. Nobody should be able to insult themselves half-heartedly and then feel sad about it._ **

**I'm not sad!**

**-_you're right. You're not sad, you're looking for attention._ **

**What's that?! Come here, you little sliver of insanity! (*grabs sliver)**

**-_Did you get it?_ **

**Yep! It's not getting away from me now. Can you believe it was trying to imitate you and get on my bad side? What a joke!**

**-_what a joke indeed (he doesn't realize that he was already playing into its hands... does he?)_ **

**Any who, thank you for reading and God Bless 'ya.**

**-_remember to do the elbow and foot shake when greeting people. It's not tested but a good way to prevent Coronavirus or something like that._ **


	12. Chapter 12

Flames and smoke obscured the vision of a nearby Capri Demon as Laurentius rolled right, under a blind swing that wound have decapitated him were he a slower fellow. He raised his reinforced shield to block another strike aimed for his chest and dashed behind the roaring beast. The humanoid Demon snapped its head from side-to-side in search of its prey as the swamp-dweller approached silently toward the thing's twitching tail. With a small thump, the pyromancer's weapon bit into the bony flesh and the Demon screamed in agony, using said tail to throw Laurentius a few meters away from it.

He landed with a thump and rolled to his feet, already preparing a fireball in his hand as the giant lumbered forward awkwardly. The axe he had lodged into its body was disrupting its sense of balance. Good, now it couldn't dodge even if it tried. He watched as the Demon took another step and stumbled, dropping to one knee and snarling at him behind that skull it had on. Or maybe that _was_ its face, he didn't know, and he didn't care. What mattered right now was killing the damn thing, so he could continue forward without interruption. With a grunt, Laurentius threw the fireball in his hand. It broke apart against the Demon's muscled chest and wailed in pain as the flames wrapped around its torso, arms, legs and neck.

Yes, Quelana had been correct in assuming he would put this pyromancy to good use. Great Fireball was more potent than his own version and it bolstered the ferocity of whatever it impacted against if the temperature was higher than an ordinary Summer's day. He would have to thank her when he returned from slaying her mother and claiming her soul.

_Woah just wait for a second._

He faltered mid step from delivering the killing blow and frowned. That had been a rather shady thing to think. Was it the heat? No, he had been in worse many times before, like that time he had been thrown into that crazy lady's furnace after eating her candy house as a child – those were scary times – so the issue of a more humid environment was out of the question.

_Damn it, Argon. You're staring to rub off on me, friend._

He placed his gloved hand against the Capri Demon's forehead after its arms had fallen off from the intense flames and flexed his fingers. The Demon's scream was almost deafening as it was torched by hot, white flames before crumbling to ash at his feet. Laurentius relaxed his hand and rested it by his side. One more Demon down, a whole kingdom to go. Just perfect.

He identified the hilt of his battle axe amidst all the black ash and bent over to retrieve it. He knew he shouldn't be complaining about his situation now, he _had_ chosen to take up both Argon and the Izalith Sister on their request to save Izalith, after all. He kicked more ash from his boots and two-handed his axe, moving through the broken pathways and corridors with caution.

It wasn't like didn't expect the birthplace of pyromancy to be a bed of roses, but he certainly hadn't expected it to look _this_ bad either. Taurus and Capri Demons lined the walls and floors like debris from a nasty explosion, obese worms of monstrous proportions sat in wait at every corner for him to fall into their deadly traps and he didn't even want to _know_ what that odd thing frozen to stone on the side of a nearby wall was.

It had been a challenge from the moment he walked into this arid city of lava, killing off hordes of those crawling things like Eingyi that had gone insane from too much time in the heat. Thereafter, he had experienced a fall from a drop he hadn't known was there and had to crush a sprite of humanity to repair his broken legs. It would have been smooth sailing from there after he reached the third floor were it not for the sea of literal lava blocking his path to the lower levels.

That's right, lava. Actual burning, churning, flowing, sizzling, molten lava; the worst kind you would ever find.

Now he wasn't one to brag – or even insinuate that he had been through the worst life had to offer – but he had grown up in a poison swamp, lived as an orphan from what little he could remember from his time as a human, recalled surviving the plague, the crazy woman in a candy house, the damn man-eating _butcher_ in the Depth's and even the troublesome bog of Blighttown with nothing else but his wits, a few friends and a hell of a lot of luck. Laurentius could attest to living one of the most inconveniencing lives imaginable too. Who else could say that every time they escaped a near-death situation, it was when they were about to be eaten alive? He knew he was handsome and had a swell beard but that didn't make him food, dammit!

So, when the undead had had to clear a sea of lava _and _bypass a bloody **_lava monster_ **that was known as _'Ceaseless Discharge'_, he was pretty certain he had earned the right to complain about whatever the hell he damn well pleased. Eingyi had briefly stated that it was once one of the Queen of Izalith's children, but he didn't believe it for a second. As far back as the records went about the Kingdom, there were never any mention of a son born from the Witch, never mind something to _this _magnitude in the ancient kingdom – although he could be wrong. Maybe this supposed son he had to grit his teeth and run from had been kept a secret… but if so, why hadn't Quelana or Quelaan said anything about it? Either way, he wouldn't face the thing now, he was already on the lower floors of Izalith, so it made no sense to backtrack anyways. On a different note, he was still peeved about something regarding the god's of Lordran. Why the hell did the Land of Ancient Lords have to have Ancient Demons that could only be killed by Ancient Weapons only useable by Ancient Warriors? And why the heck was everything focused on the 'ancient' part? Did the locals here really discriminate that badly against the new and improved? Sheesh, and they called him stubborn to change.

Laurentius heard a deep growl and lifted his head to see two more Capri Demon's approaching with menacing great swords in hand. Well at least he didn't have to waste the energy to come to them.

He took a breath and curled his fingers around empty air as one of them sprinted for him. It was about time to start using his flame more religiously after neglecting it for so long. The Demon reached his personal bubble of range and threw its arm wide to carve a jagged hole into his side. Laurentius leaned forward and flicked his wrist and a thick circular length of fire whipped against the Demon's skull-face, delaying its attack and making it take a step back in shock. The pyromancer decided to capitalize on the opportunity and flicked his wrist again, scoring a clear cut against the skull again with enough force to lop half of it off. The bottom half of the Capri Demon's face spurted black blood and it fell to the ground. He turned his gaze to the second one and smirked as it took a hesitant step back.

"What's the matter, mate? I thought you were resistant to fire?"

The Demon took another step back before charging forward and leaping into the air, great swords raised to make mincemeat out of him. Laurentius just sniffed and launched his flamed-whip at the thing, catching it around the neck and pulling with a grunt. These things were heavier than he thought.

The Demon jerked sideways roughly, a loud _snap_ echoing around whatever floor he was currently on as he directed his whip towards the edge of the hallway. He cut of the flames and saw the Demon's body flail uselessly and approach another sea of lava below.

He sighed in mild ecstasy as the rush of souls entered his body, rewarding him with a fresh increase of endorphins. Being careful not to step in the small pools of lava that remained dotted around the area he was standing in, Laurentius picked up the small pieces of titanite he found from the Demon's corpses and rounded the next corner of a rather precarious turn. He spotted a smaller worm monster on the platform below that was resting next to what seemed like an unlit bonfire and grinned broadly. Lady Luck was definitely on his side today.

He drew his axe once again and jumped. Lava or no lava, he was really enjoying all the mighty smiting he was doing!

* * *

"We need to go to Anor Londo."

"No, we don't."

"Yes, we do."

"No, WE DON'T!"

"LOWER YOUR VOICE WHEN SPEAKING TO ME, BOY!"

"MAYBE YOU SHOULD HEED YOUR OWN COMMANDS FOR ONCE!"

"DO I LOOK LIKE THE ONE SCREAMING LIKE A MANIAC?"

"**YES!**"

Priscilla sighed into her hands as the trio walked towards the waterway of the Undead Burg. This conversation had been brought up, rejected, argued, ended, and repeated fives times over now. At first, she had tried to placate the two of her male companions by using partnership as an excuse – which had horribly backfired when the two had _then_ argued about who hated who the most – but had given up hopelessly after the third round of berating them when their excessive quarrelling had gathered a large group of Berenike Knight's. Both Argon and Havel had blamed the other for attracting unwanted attention before making a competition on who could slay the most foes, anyway.

The goddess couldn't understand the bishop's reasoning at all. He had hammered in the fact that he despised the Shinning City and all it contained with a passion akin to a thief's greed; unbreakable and resolute. That very statement was what confused her to the point of silence. Why would he want to return to a place that brought up unwanted memories of betrayal in the first place?

"I don't get you, old man-"

"Stop calling me old, I'm only a few centuries old!"

"-You hate Anor Londo more than you hate the truth-"

"I said I'm not old!"

"-So why in the world would you ever want to return there?" Argon finally finished and turned his head towards the bishop.

Havel scratched his un-hollowed chin and sneered at the ground. They had reached the bonfire located inside a small storage building the night before where Argon had begrudgingly handed the obnoxious man one of his precious humanity sprites so that he could do something about that horrid appearance of his. Before he crushed it, the undead and cross breed had imagined an old man full of wrinkles and sun spots to appear before them. Havel had lived more than any ordinary human and undead ever recorded in history so physically he would be bound to look his age, as extended as it was. However, what the pair hadn't expected was the form of a man in his early sixties, bald and tanned with barely any wrinkles and a muscled physique that managed to look better than his half-meaty, half-scrawny hollow form.

It wasn't a perfect picture, however, as when he did revert to his human form and attempted to walk towards the two of them, he had promptly tripped over his beard and headbutted the floor with enough momentum to leave a round hole at the entrance of the storage room. The beard – or wizardry beard as Argon had dubbed it – hadn't stopped growing during his time hollow and had stretched to touch the floor. It had certainly been a treat for the younger undead to see Priscilla used her scythe to shear away meter-long grey hair form the bishop's sulking face. It had been so funny in fact, that Argon had to evade a Demon Hammer flung his way when he teased the man who was apparently self-centred and self-conscious as well.

Looking at the older man now that currently had that moat of grey trimmed to fit his jawline was different but not foreign to Argon. He could now see the undead for the archbishop he was. The way he moved when not hindered by the curse displayed his grace, poise and noble heritage. The way he looked at things through those steel-coloured eyes of his spoke of the wisdom and knowledge he held. Argon now understood why such a troublesome fellow had been feared by the gods' and why even the likes of Seath had made the rash decision to lock him up for eternity. Behind all that childishness, arrogance and nagging stood an unparalleled strategist, a juggernaut both physically and mentally – a dangerous asset to lose.

"Just tell me what's so important there that _you_ of all people want to explore its empty streets and barren hallways."

Havel sighed and kicked the water he was ankle-deep in. Whatever it was he was after, it was clear that it had been weighing heavy on his mind. He had been badgering both him and the goddess from the early hours of the morning. Usually he would have just argued to no end before grumbling unintelligibly. Perhaps this was something vital to their quest that he was leading them to? They had already assigned Laurentius to Izalith, and with the help of Quelana and Quelaan, he was sure to succeed but they still had three more Lord Soul's to collect. They needed more people, or at least something to bolster their fire power when they encountered one of the three Ancient Lords. Did Havel somehow have something that could aid them in besting their perilous foes beyond the bonfires?

"It's an important part of our core strength if we are to work as a group." Havel said and adjusted the hammer across his spine.

"Will obtaining it ensure we can defeat a Lord and obtain their soul?" Priscilla asked.

The man thought for a moment before nodding, "It will increase our chances of it, yes."

"Then its settled," Argon replied, not wanting to be left out of the conversation and aimed his bow at a large rat placed at the exit of the waterway. "I don't really want to go back to a god feeding me fake words and ultimatums, but I suppose another tussle with a few Silver Knight's is worth the journey." His fingers released the arrow he was holding, and the cross breed watched as it flew with a whistle before sinking into the rat's skull with a dull _thunk_.

"Besides!" the undead said happily, "The Shinning City is where one of our target's lie in wait."

Both Havel and Priscilla sobered up at this. They both had a bone to pick with the albino dragon seated in his ivory tower. Now that both had been freed from their imprisonment with hatred and pain festering in their heart's, and along with an unbeatable Chosen Undead, they would, without a doubt, succeed in exacting their revenge.

"Now, lets get moving!" Argon cheered and began to skip towards the entrance, literally skip. Havel frowned whilst Priscilla smiled warmly at the sight.

It was perfectly normal to see the aloof undead act like a fool to just about anyone or anything, inanimate objects included. Yet seeing him dance around dirty water under the Undead Burg with a reinforced bow in his hand was just disturbing to the archbishop. It was so disturbing that he shivered at the sight. He may be a hypocrite when he said this, but he didn't care, _that_ was positively childish.

The goddess, on the other hand, smiled like she had just been given a bouquet of roses as she observed the jolly undead with glittering emerald eyes. Despite their current situation she couldn't help but smile. They had just endured so much that would have broken any normal undeads spirit – if there were any normal undead out there to begin with – and he was hopping around as if everything was going to be alright.

From a personal perspective, she knew he was finding it tougher as compared to herself and Havel. He was still struggling to resist the effects of the abyssal corruption placed upon him, after all, and the previous night they had taken to rest had done him more harm than good.

She had caught him writhing in agony inside a small house across the bonfire. He had been shirtless, mask tossed aside, and muscles strained as the corruption spread. At first, she had wanted to throw open the door and rush to his side. However, when her eyes caught the thin, black veins that had spread from his chest, to his face and curling around his right shoulder towards his elbow, she had frozen up.

She didn't know why or what had prevented her from trying to help him, but she had spent those few hours watching him gasp, groan, cry out and shake from the pain without lifting a finger in response. He had tried to hold his screams in so that she and Havel wouldn't hear them, but she had been at the window _watching_. It began with those mesmerising eyes of his scrunching shut as the pain travelled upwards like a wave of joy-sucking disparity. His back had been arched, and he had clamped a hand over his mouth as his voice raised in octaves. The sound of his raw screech had been like a slap to the face and the tears that slid down her face at the display had finally forced her body into action.

Her clawed fingers had reached for the door handle, his name on her tongue as she prepared to call out to him… until Havel's large hand had stopped her in her tracks. The archbishop had known about the undeads condition, it was almost foolish to think he wouldn't have figured it out after observing them with a gaze that had endured the ages. He had quietly shaken his head at her and gently led her back to the bonfire. Needless to say, the cross breed hadn't managed to get any sleep with her sharp ears fine-tuning every scream and pant Argon had made. What woman could ignore it when their beloved was being assaulted by the darkness he had done his best to banish?

So, when she saw him frolicking around the area as if he were the happiest undead in Lordran, she was glad. He wouldn't bother either of them with his problems because of who he was, she knew that. Even if she forced it out of him she doubted he would loosen the ironic ability he possessed to shut up when it came to his personal issues, so the only thing she could do from here was support him. During his rising and his falling, his moments of hesitation and tribulation, she would support him. She had come to understand that he suffered from pistanthrophobia**1**, so she would wait for him to slowly come out of his closely guarded shell. Whether it took him months, years or even decades, she would wait. He was her saviour, so she couldn't turn her back on him when it was clear he was far, _far _away from alright. At the same time, he was also the only person she loved this deeply. So, she would give him everything she had, because he offered so much and asked for nothing in return. She owed it to herself to make his life full of the one thing he yearned for but never openly requested… happiness.

"Wait just a moment, boy." Havel spoke, stopping the skipping undead from reaching the exit. Argon turned around and looked at the bishop, amber orbs glowing from behind his mask in the dark space.

"What is it now, old man? I already said we'll go to Anor Londo. We just need to make a stop by Firelink first."

"I understood that already."

"Then what's the problem?"

"If you can travel between bonfires with the power of the Lordvessel, then why didn't we just warp there at the one we just rested at instead of coming all this way?"

Argon froze mid-step. "Err…"

"Well? I'm waiting _Chosen Undead_." Havel said folding his arms and smiling triumphantly. This was going to be good.

"Uh, yes! Well…" he began and tapped his finger against his mask in thought. Priscilla simply giggled behind her hand, further embarrassing the undead as he stuttered more. Argon was many amazing things to her and she cherished every side of him for the simple reason that it made up the Argon she so loved but if she were to be honest, she _adored_ this part of him. It was just too good to see the otherwise unflappable undead miss such a small piece of the puzzle and flush a brilliant ruby red when he attempted to use logic to explain his innocent blunder.

"Ha! I've got it!" he said finally, pointing a gloved hand at Havel.

"Oh, really now? Please… indulge me."

"It's the journey that matters here, not the speed we take to finish it. What's the point of a quest if all we do is warp to every area without the joys of tedious travel?"

Havel deadpanned the undead and sighed, walking passed him with a gentle pat on the shoulder.

"There, there, son. Just be grateful she's so blindly in love with you and live happy."

This time it was Priscilla's time to flush red.

* * *

Drakes. Blue scaled, valley surveying, lightning-breathing drakes. The descendants of the titanic dragon and the newest degeneration of the current wyvern. Their size was still humungous and their appetites for blood and guts even more ravenous. One would have assumed that after so many lonely years spent without a drop of water or a piece of meat these lethargic lizards were most definitely be deceased by now, nothing more than rotting scales attached to brittle bones. And yet, as the Knight of Thorns stood at the foot of a greyscale hill leading to the bottom of the Darkroot Basin he began to feel more and more impatient than before.

He didn't understand why that ambiguously confusing Lithecore had suddenly come up with the idea to drain the floodgates of New Londo on a whim that it would attract that lucky undead. The two of them already used the resting place of the Five Kings' as their home base, what was the need to make it vulnerable to detection – not that any soul besides a Darkwraith could enter the ruined kingdom's abyss if they wanted to. This had been after he had encountered said undead not even a full day ago. Lithecore had told him that he had been duelling a Black Knight for entertainment at the time – he said it so casually as if anyone could do so with a literal tank of an enemy – when the undead and his party of two other's had passed by after a surprise visit from a Hellkite Dragon. This intrigued the commander for three reasons.

Firstly, the insane wraith was able to toy with a Black Knight and live to tell the tale. Black Knights weren't anything special, all things considered. They were just mindless husks of their former visages of silver, their confused souls trapped within their own armour until the Flame finally withered and died. They were no less than the Berenike soldiers than aimlessly patrolled Lordran, but if encountered, they would soon become a nightmare you couldn't awake from. Black Knights still retained their armaments and bolstered strength from the moment the First Flame torched them alive. As such, battle would be near impossible to win. Those terrifying great swords stained red from the Demon blood drunk, those twisted horns above their small heads and the horrific silence they possessed despite being so freakishly large. For Kirk's second in command to call fighting a Knight such as that _entertainment_ was either a testament to his strength or amplification of his insanity.

Secondly, the wraith had said Argon was travelling in a trio. The last he had known, that pyromancer had chosen to stay in Blighttown to brave the lost city of Izalith. According to Lithecore's report, the third member of the undeads party was a stout man dressed in heavy armour, a white beard on his face and gruesome hammer resting in his hands. So, the bishop of Gwyn wasn't hollow after all, it seemed. Caution would need to be taken with him, too many wraiths would lose their decayed lives if they faced him carelessly.

Lastly, the fact that a Hellkite still existed in Lordran with its head still attached meant more trouble than it was worth. The scaled beasts were unpredictable, wild and annoying if they fancied you as the next item to flambé. The worst part about the hellish being was the fact that Hellkite's were renowned for their healing abilities. Just one curl of their wings and the battle you've been fighting for who knows how long and they would recover from near death in a heartbeat. Also, he could understand why people insisted on called them dragons when it was plainly clear they were ordinary Wyverns… with insane healing factors.

An obnoxious sound from one of the drakes brought the Darkwraith back to reality as he drew his blade, stabbed the earth and summoned a vortex of pure darkness from it. Despite Kirk's battle prowess and skill, he wouldn't be enough to best all these winged-lizards single-handedly. He needed his wraiths to pull off this plan and summon them to his aid he would without a moment's hesitation. He was their commander after all… what Darkwraith – besides that raspy Black Knight wannabe – would dare ignore his call to brilliant slaughter?

Kirk stepped back from the vortex as the first wraith ascended from its depths, hands clutching a copy of the terrifying blades all his subordinates carried. His armour was as wicked as Kirk's own and the skull mask added to pure despair when glanced at. It made the Knight proud to know that his fellow brethren inspired so much fear into the hearts of the world. The commander continued to watch as more wraiths rose and fell into formation along the length of the hilltop. One by one they all came, silently arriving and drawing swords to rush the mindless beasts below. Kirk admired them for not waiting for orders as the final wraith left the circle and joined the ranks. It was satisfying to see a horde of skull-face Darkwraith's rush down the hill and collide with the first two drakes on the edge of the valley. These soul ravenous simpletons were obedient and efficient, he had to give them that.

Without wasting a single moment, Kirk sprinted down the hill towards on of the drakes four of his wraiths were fighting. The scaly beast wailed in pain as a blade sheared through its flank before it used a wing to bash the wraith away. The next one came from the vanguard, leaping into the air to sever the things head from its thick neck. As the sword met scales, the beast cried out and tried to violently shake the wraith off. The drake turned and breathed a stream of lighting that tore the closest Darkwraith's body to shreds, emitting a cloud of bloody mist as the Knight of Thorns dived through it and stabbed below the beast's exposed throat. His blade dug into the softer flesh and he pushed the blade all the way until the hilt, grinning when the drake screamed its last and burst into a pool of souls.

He turned and watched a small group of wraiths raise their Dark-hand shields to block incoming flashes of yellow gold. Three more drakes across the bridge were wreaking havoc amongst his subordinates and the commander dashed over the body of a long dead hollow and took to the small staircase, two wraiths flanking him on his right and his left. This scuffle would be over in a few more moments, no force of a few drakes could ever hope to stop an army of Darkwraith's. Kirk swung his sword and severed the tail of a drake that attempted to take flight and observed as his fellow wraiths converged onto the beast like ants after a morsel of food had been dropped. It was almost comical when he saw their blades injecting the blue lizard like mandibles tearing away crumbs from a loaf of bread.

The second and third drake screamed in unison, crushing a wraith under their talons whilst another had his head bitten off within the blink of an eye. If the commander of the Darkwraith's was supposed to feel grief or anger at the loss of a soldier, he didn't show it. In actual fact, he didn't even bat an eye as the drakes were slowly overpowered and slaughtered mercilessly, killing of handfuls of his minions as their lives left them. These wraiths may have been his to command, but they meant nothing to him. What use was caring for fodder anyways when the only thing these suits of armour possessed was a humanly lust for souls? A lost wraith just meant another piece of filth purged from the world to Kirk, five more would always take its place anyways and the world would be filthier than before. That was just how he saw it. That's just how it was.

The commander noticed a ladder against the side of a watchtower and approached it, sheathing his blade before climbing it. He didn't give any orders to his subordinates, they would standby like obedient little dogs awaiting his return like they always did. What a pathetic waste of space they all were. Kirk reached the top of the tower and stood to full height, breathing in the fresh mountain air that didn't smell like dragon blood and looked towards the impressive floodgates of New Londo. It was large enough to house the ancient golems of Sen's Fortress, that was for certain. For a moment he thought of what that proud God of Sparkles would do if _he_ were trapped behind these doors. Would his meagre fireworks be enough to pierce the walls of layered rock and iron that kept even the feared Abyss at bay?

As Kirk paced around the circular turret, he took note of a strange object on the floor and bent over to pick it up. The red stone set into the golden band shone in the sun like a crystalized drop of blood. It was strangely pleasing to look at from the Darkwraith's perspective and he pocketed the ring. This would be a good gift to give to Quelaan when he saw her again.

He knew that his presence was no longer needed there thanks to that annoying undead, but the Knight of Thorns just couldn't keep his mind from travelling to the stunning survivor of Izalith. She had replaced his reason for living the day he had warped into her chamber, intent on collecting her soul as ordered to by Kaathe. She had appeared as ethereal to him, majestic almost to a point where he would just drop by to gaze at her silently praying for hours at a time before leaving refreshed and motivated to continue.

He hadn't understood _why_ he had begun to collect sprites of humanity for her under the nose of that manly sister of hers, he just did it. Whether it was due to a small shred of pity or perhaps something more he couldn't say, the only thing swimming around in his mind when he conversed with her was to ensure she was able to walk properly. But now there was no need for that. She had been fully healed – save for her sight – from what Argon had told him. Kirk was more annoyed that he had believed the ignoble sow at face value instead of checking on her for himself. Yet, even though he argued that he didn't need to return to that hovel… something in his chest yearned to revisit it just once.

He wouldn't be a fool to call it love, Darkwraith's didn't possess physical _hearts_ to begin with, even if he was an undead. He would use the ring as an excuse, call it a congratulatory present to hide the truth from even himself because he didn't want to believe that after committing such atrocities as the Knight of Thorns, that he of all people deserved to feel love, or to be loved in return. Besides, such things weren't eternal, relations were as fragile as a human's scrawny neck – a simple squeeze and all the muscles and bones would snap in an instant… just like the sad truth of love.

Kirk gazed down at his fellow subordinates and remembered that they were standing in front of the floodgates. He would need to order them to scatter before the great doors op-

As the thought left his mind, the sound of gigantic hinges groaning entered his ears and the watched as the floodgates of New Londo opened, spilling a sea of putrid water onto the wraiths stationed down below. What caught Kirk's attention wasn't the scores of Darkwraith's that were droned and thrown over the tall valley below, but the number of corpses comprised of men, women and children that accompanied the flowing water. The bloated citizens of this ruined city littered the entrance to New Londo like debris from an explosion. The bodies that weren't lucky enough to go over the cliff hung halfway on the bridge like broken puppets without their strings.

The commander turned his gaze to the entrance and saw a figure clad in black emerge with his hands folded. Lithecore's cowl was down and his pale skin was struck by a ray of sunlight, illuminating his glowing amber eyes as he looked at a particular Darkwraith descending from a watchtower.

"I thought the other _wraiths_ were supposed to join _us_?"

"They departed with the blessing of rain you gave them." Kirk replied, glancing at the inside of the dark city. Lithecore just shrugged in reply.

"Baptism purges all _impurities_… I suppose there wasn't anything _pure_ remaining on the inside of our _Dark_wraith's." he said and chuckled whilst Kirk sighed. His second in command was insane, sure, but couldn't his attempts at humour be more genuine at least.

"Now what? The city has been drained. How will less water attract a fish?"

"Oh, it won't. This was just step _one_, now we need to acquire the necessary _bait_."

Kirk nodded and walked passed him. Lithecore was many things, but foolish was not one of them. If the Darkwraith had a plan, then it was wise to follow it without argument. His unorthodox thinking was one of the reasons Kaathe had entrusted him to lead beside the Knight of Thorns after just becoming a wraith. If his master trusted him unconditionally, he would as well.

"Lead the way then."

* * *

"You made us come all this way for a spare set of armour?!"

Argon pointed an accusing finger at Havel as the bishop readjusted his gauntlets, completely ignoring the irate undead.

"Now, now, don't overreact, son. I couldn't very well continue using that ugly armour you gave as a replacement, now could I?"

"Tarkus' armour was made from black steel in the Berenike kingdom."

"Flimsy pieces of metal easily melted by fire," the bishop waved him off and thumped a hand over his covered chest. "_This_ is real protection."

The undead sighed and turned to Priscilla for help. The more he spoke to the old man the more he felt like he was lowering his how ability to think concisely. For a man that held an abundance of wisdom, Havel sure did act like a grumbling old goat. Argon was about to ask his cross-breed companion what she thought but the words died on his tongue when he saw her curled up into a ball holding her sides as laughter threatened to burst from the seams of her leather outfit.

Priscilla normally found the exchanges between Argon and Havel to be more of a hassle than anything else. The conversation always ended in a full-blown argument that she would either have to resolve herself or simply wait for the two of them to duke it out and lose all steam before they could begin their journey again. However, given the difficult times they had just faced together and the fact that Lordran was still dying whilst they paddled along a stagnant lake with all this bickering, seeing this very anti-climactic outcome had been the breaking point for her – in a good way too with how much her mouth hurt from smiling so much. She would have loved to back Argon up but right now she was a little busy trying to stop from crying out as her tail writhed with her in laughter.

Argon, for his part, simply sighed out and grabbed at his hair in frustration. This old geezer had not only ruined his chances of ever finding a moment of peace with the amount of times he pushed the younger undeads buttons, but now he had also brainwashed his fluffy-tailed companion into acting like a giggling mess whenever something seriously outrageous happened?!

"See? Even Priscilla's seeing the funny side of things." Havel said and fixed his shield against his back, revelling in its reassuring weight before grabbing that horrid excuse for a weapon he called the Dragontooth Club.

"You know, I was told you were actually a funny guy to be around… for all the time I've spent with the two of you, I must admit you don't seem to have a single funny bone in your body."

"Your ugly face weakens its effectiveness is all." Argon grumbled out.

"Really? Well it's a good thing I have this now, isn't it?" Havel said with glee as he rubbed that brush-top helm of his against his cheek, making the undead groan in response. It wasn't that he wasn't funny, it was just that Havel was too annoying to even bother joking around. Would he even be able to understand the jokes of the new era?

A large unopened chest to their right caught his attention and Argon approached it in curiosity. "What's in this one, old man?"

Havel turned to him after putting on his helm and walked toward it. The undead looked at the archbishop as he stared at the box for some time before using a boot to lift the lid. "Take a look for yourself." Priscilla took this moment to creep up behind both men, peering over Argon's shoulder to see a long piece of wood resting in the chest.

"Another club?" she asked with a frown, her sharp canines poking out from her mouth as she chewed her bottom lip in thought. Havel had his Dragontooth, a weapon almost near indestructible despite it being an ordinary hunk of black stone. Why would he even need a wooden club when he was basically a weapon himself? Maybe it was for practicing his swings as a child?

"Huh… guess this wasn't a total loss after all." Argon mused and lifted the club up to examine it closer. Priscilla's frown deepened. Was she missing something here? It was just a club crafted from ordinary wood, by a most likely ordinary smith-

_Or is it ordinary?_

Her eyes focused on the club again, broadening her senses to pick up on anything that she might be missing when she caught a faint flicker of black emit from the weapon. The goddess moved in closer to Argon and placed a finger against the hilt of the club. Instantly she felt the difference. It was like the entire room around her was drained of physical colour, turned to light and dark shades of grey in the timeframe of a single second of contact with the seemingly innocent club. As her heart beat, ripples of dark energy flowed from the club's centre, casting a feeling of vertigo upon her and she quickly removed her hand, gasping as colour and normal emotions filled her mind again.

"You felt it too, right?" Argon asked, and she nodded, unable to speak as he tossed the club back to Havel.

"Were did you manage to find something like that?"

"I had a smith forge it in secret using an ember that was destroyed long ago."

Argon hummed in reply, folding his arms and thinking for a moment. That strange power that pulled the user into a world of monochrome due to its dark influence had nearly given Priscilla a heart attack, and for good reason. Power like that is dangerous, uncontrollable and illegal in Lordran, it was the reason Velka and her followers had been cast out of the kingdom all those years ago. Yet, even as the undead had been the one to hold that club in his hands and feel the same feeling of despair, he wasn't affected like his comrade.

In truth, the Velkian rapier he wielded possessed the same essence, but to a smaller degree. Occultic magic was the first and only fear of the gods since ancient times that the Everlasting Dragons were like mythical beasts in a fairy tale compared to that sinister power. Black magic imbued into armaments weren't as dissimilar as ascending a blade with fire or a shield with an enchantment, the only upside to occultic power was that it had the adverse effect to beings of divinity due to its corrupt nature more twisted than minions of the Abyss. And of course, Gwyn had feared such weapons for the simple fact that it was the only power capable of slaying a god. It was no wonder Velka hated Anor Londo when she was shunned for being born a Goddess that judged the sins of all beings, _including_ gods.

"Well it's a shame," Argon said and stretched his arms above his head. "You made another caveman weapon. Are you certain you're not actually one of those deprived I hear so much about?"

Havel laughed and turned on his heel. "If I swung a sword it would probably break from the impact against my target. It was best to stick what I was renowned for; pulverising people to a pulp." He approached the stairway they had used earlier, and Priscilla followed closely behind, tail still on end from touching that god-killer weapon.

"Woah, where are you guys going?"

Havel and Priscilla turned around to face him.

"There's still one more chest we haven't opened here." He said pointing to the one behind him and the cross breed immediately rushed to his side, static tail now a wagging indicator of excitement. Argon gazed at her smiling face and grinned. She looked like a child expecting a mountain of food for dinner. He took note of how her emerald eyes sparkled brightly in the darker room and how her hands closed into tight fists in anticipation. If Havel wasn't looking he would have certainly petted her on the head. Wait, screw what he said, he still wanted to pet her on the head regardless; she just looked so damn cute!

"What other chest?" Havel asked, stomping towards them and looking down at said chest in question. "This doesn't belong to me."

Priscilla tilted her head to the side and Argon felt like pulling her into the tightest hug he could. "Are you sure, Sir Havel?"

"I'm positive. I only had four chests down here. This last one doesn't ring a bell in my memory."

He turned his head towards the two to see them giggling ominously at the chest, their hands flexing involuntarily the more they looked at it, like dastardly thieves ready to steal a valuable possession. Havel sweat-dropped and muttered under his breath. He would expect such behaviour from the undead due to how different his life had been compared to Priscilla's as royalty and him as an archbishop. To see said cross breed acting the same however, was new to him. It appeared that Argon was rubbing off on her a little too much. He didn't say anything because the older undead was silently routing for the pair to actually _become_ a pair, but this was just scarring to his weathered eyes. If she had already begun to speak like the common undead and acted like a bandit every time she came across the possibility of treasure, how long would he have to wait before she began thinking like the undead she loved so much or started wearing a bland mask to hide her adorable features?! Havel paled at the possibility of such a thing occurring.

"Well, I guess we should just open it then," she said, and Argon nodded quickly, the excitement rolling off him in waves.

"Not like any Silver Knight will come down here and accuse us of stealing his personal artefacts, 'ya know." Argon replied and kicked the chest open with the tip of his boot, like the way Havel had done earlier.

"Now, what do we have he-"

**_CHOMP!_ **

The undead froze and looked down at his right leg that was currently bleeding profusely from being bitten by a multitude of sharp teeth. He heard a ridiculous giggle and the blood in his veins froze when he saw a thick, grey tongue emerge from the chest.

"YEEOUCH!" he screamed as the mimic continued to chomp down on his leg, enjoying the dungeon-styled B whilst Priscilla promptly burst into laughter and collapsed onto the floor.

A mimic was trying to eat him. A freaking _mimic_! These sly, sleeping bastards that acted like innocent treasure troves only to deplete your life with a few good bites into your abdomen before ripping you in two like stuffed turkey at the bloody end of the year. Argon _hated_ these abnormal freaks of nature with a passion. It wasn't the first time he had encountered one of these ugly hunks of deceit. How could he ever hope to forget when they had smeared his blood all over the walls in Sen's Fortress, made him repeat the pained journey through Anor Londo's upper floors when facing giant sentinels, created more enemies than he could handle inside the castle and been the reason he had had to resort to blowing up every damn crate he saw with a pyromancy spell before he could actually open them?! These atrocious buggers had given him PTSD whenever they encountered _anything_ inanimate! Why the hell was his guard down _now_ of all moments? Was it because he had seen Havel open the other four without any problems that he thought his luck would be the same? He knew for a fact fate never smiled on him that often so why hadn't he checked just to be certain? Wait, forget checking, why the hell was his luck so damned terrible to begin with?!

As he continued to scream in pain and the cross breed grew from laughing to gasping in pure ecstasy, Havel watched the two of them while trying to figure out what in Lloyd's name was going on. Argon had kicked open a chest, yes, but why did it have teeth and a tongue and why was it currently munching on his leg as casually as waking up from some decade-old nap? Furthermore, Argon was in trouble. His _leg_ was about to get torn off and the goddess was busy _laughing _at him as if it was the funniest thing in the world? Was she okay? Had his occultic club broken her mind somehow to make her enjoy seeing other people in pain? No, never. She was just… laughing in irony?

Okay, he didn't really know how to put it, but his friend needed help. When the mimic raised its jaws again to try and clamp down, Havel delivered a strong smash of his club to the chest's opening, sending the monster container sprawling against the wall with a crash. What shocked the bishop to silence however, was the fact that when the man-eating chest recovered, it _stood up_ on arms and legs three times longer than his Dragontooth. How could such a monster even _stand_ properly with a head that most definitely weighed a ton?!

The mimic began to approach them with that sickening giggle and Havel tensed up in slight fear. This was odd for the undead, for two reasons. One, he wasn't used to being afraid of anything at all, and two, a bloody man-eating chest on two bloody tall legs was going to try and _eat_ him alive. What should he do, run? Fight? Scream?

Before he could answer his own question, Argon grabbed a talisman from the bishop's waist and threw it at the things open mouth. Chest. Whatever that open part with teeth was. The mimic clamped down on the silver ball and it burst from inside, expelling wisps of magic from between the teeth before the thing burped loudly. Havel was about to state that doing that was useless when he noticed the tall box with teeth offer a human-sounding yawn before putting its arms and legs back under the chest-head and falling asleep with a snore.

A few seconds passed with Priscilla still rolling on the floor laughing as ungracefully as always.

The bishop was about to ask what the hell just happened for the second time when Argon turned to him and grabbed his Dragontooth from his hands.

"Lend me this for a second."

He watched the undead limp towards the now innocent looking chest and slam the slab of rock against the top of it, caving in the wood and snapping what Havel supposed was the things jaw as it was shocked out of sleep with a loud yell.

"Take this 'ya little bastard!" Argon roared and slammed the club against the mimic's head again, splintering the head so badly that it gave a wail of pain before dissipating into souls.

"**_UUUUOOOHHHHH!_ **"

"And stay dead!" The undead shouted back and returned Havel's club before lifting his mask and gulping Estus.

The goddess of their party was breathing heavily now, gasping in between small laughs that jolted her body and left her breathless again. Under normal circumstances seeing her like this would have been perfectly fine, but these weren't normal circumstances in Argon's book as he limped towards her, the mimic's bite was still pretty damn painful despite healing the wound. It would take him at least a few more minutes before he could walk properly. It was a good thing he knew the best way to bide his time while he healed… by exacting his revenge.

"So… you thought that was funny, did you?" Argon asked a smiling goddess siting in front of him with the sweetest voice he could muster.

"Y-You're voice… haha… it… hahahaha… was jus-just too much… haaa." She was _still_ a stuttering mess even in the face of death? At least she had the stones for it.

"That's great, just fine really," the undead replied, crouching down to her level, removing his mask in the process and smiling sweetly at her. By this point, given that he had taken his mask off _and_ smiled at her had done a perfect job in instantly killing her giggles. By this point, instead of positively happy, she was positively terrified. He had removed his mask to look at her face, while that wasn't surprising since they were so close he did it out of habit at bonfires when Havel was asleep, he had just taken _off _his _mask_ while in the _field_ of all places. She honestly didn't know whether to try apologising or running for her life, that sweet smile could only mean more trouble than it was worth.

Priscilla gulped involuntarily.

"_Now_…" the emphasis he put on that word made her entire body erupt in goose bumps. "Let me _give_ you a reason to laugh, my dear _Priscilla_."

He leaned in towards her, hands grasping her shoulders as he pulled her close, murder written on his face as she paled, eyes going wide.

"A-Argon, w-w-wait a moment… m-maybe we could tal- wait! D-Don't. No!"

Havel just stood there as Argon tickled the woman to tears, cackling ominously as he did so like some psychopath. The cross breed screamed and cried for help from him over and over as she writhed, curled up, jerked from side to side, gasped and tensed as the undead was relentless in his revenge against her. Forget everything Havel had ever said about his personality and her ungracefulness; they were two perfectly mad peas in a pod. He wouldn't every say a word against it, not after what he was witnessing now. Honestly, the bishop couldn't blame him though… what better way to seek revenge than death-by-tickle? However, his mind was more focussed on the fact that now Lordran had chests that could eat a man in one bite.

As Priscilla's terrifying screams continued, Havel thought of the best way to tackle these mimicking fiends in case they ever came across another chest, walking up the stairway as he did so and closing the door behind him, firmly shutting out the wails of terror below. He sighed out and rested his helmed head against the doorframe. He could _still_ hear them shouting.

"Sir Havel! Please hel- AH! S-Sto-_AHAHAHAHHAHA!_"

"Don't think the old man will save you! I will have my revenge!"

"NOOOOOOO!!!"

_I need stronger armour…_

* * *

**I liked the death-by-tickle part, it sounds like something Argon would do; and it's kinda cute too. As for mimic's… smashing them with a huge-ass club just ain't enough, the bloody bane of all treasure hunters!**

**I've been going over a lot of different scenarios in my head for when Argon and Lithecore face off for the first time. All of them sound pretty good but I'd like to hear any ideas you guys have if you're interested in this encounter. As for the other characters like Laurentius and Havel, I'm going to focus on them more as they each head to their respective Lord Soul's while still keeping Argon and Priscilla as mains for every chapter.**

**Thanks again to_ joecola00_ for pointing out a couple of noteworthy things about the previous chapter. The only thing I'll say is this: Whoever said the Black Knight was dead in the first place?**

**I like giving background characters centre stage so Black Knight's, painting guardians, stone giants and the like are characters that I'll be giving personalities to quite often in Kingdom Come. Please enjoy their traits and personas as much as I will enjoy writing them up.**

**If you find the time, please do read my spin-off of Kingdom Come relating to Argon and Priscilla in a less violent atmosphere. It was supposed to have this really long name, but I couldn't fit it in the story title :( but it's still a good read. I've only posted chapter 1 so far but I will post more of it concurrently with Kingdom Come if I manage to write up the material in time. My spin-off is light-hearted and aimed purely for the comedy and romance aspect.**

**As for the issue of the worldwide pandemic that rhymes with torona, my country – as well as most of yours as well – has placed me on house arrest so besides studying and working from home, I guess I'll be devoting my spare time to writing more chapters for you to enjoy.**

**Lastly, please stay safe wherever you are in the world. I don't know you from a bar of soap, but I still don't want you guys – whoever you are – to contract this problematic illness and suffer, so please stay safe and God bless you all! We shall overcome this!**


	13. Chapter 13

**When you wear a mask, you hide the emotions on your face and block the ailments of this world from entering a very useful tool; your mouth. So, what really grinds my gears, is when the locals in the neighbourhood I just moved into stand and stare at me like some wiredo even though our President announced not only a national quarantine but also a necessity to wear a mask FREQUENTLY when going outside. I swear those blokes outside that eatery are either insanely stupid or they're all ghoul's that can fight off a pesky pandemic.**

**-_you should be focussing on the fact that you made Chapter 12's authors note too long again._ **

**Will I never be rid of you?**

**-_don't ask stupid questions, those fools at the diner are beginning to rub off on you._ **

**Ugh, don't lump we in with old men living a mid-life crisis (*cringes)**

**-_you didn't answer a faithful reviewer's question either._ **

**An Interspecies Revie-**

**_-(*smacks mihairu7) don't allow your inner pervert to show, you'll put the readers off this story._ **

**Ow… why do you have to hit so hard? Anyways, in truth, I haven't said a word about a certain firstborn because I hadn't originally intended to put him in this story. However, if I manage to accumulate enough information and if there is a viable opening to include such an important character from the Dark Souls Universe, I will. For now, I'll be focussing on the characters of DS1.**

**As for why I didn't make the tickle scene a bit sexier, it's because that was a tickle scene… innocent without any bountiful melon juggling to note (as funny as it would have been to write about). Sometimes its best to go into minor detail. This fic is rated M for mutilated monster corpses and manifesting main bosses. No magnificent melon mounting available here. Not even one.**

**-_(*smacks mihairu7 again)_ **

**What the hell was that for?**

**_-you were imagining Priscilla when you said that._ **

**Of course, how else would I have gotten the idea to mention it?!**

**-_let me rephrase that, you imagined Priscilla's melons when you said that._ **

**Not that I care but just how much of a dirtbag do you think I am?**

**_-on with the story, please._ **

**I wasn't imagining that, dammit!**

* * *

Whether the sun rose or fell, the stars shone or were submerged in the true blackness of the Darkmoon, he stayed lying on the ground. No breath inflated the now flaking platemail he wore, and his faithful blade was little more than liquid seeping between the stone ground below his aching body. His armaments were supposed to be strong enough to withstand the Witch of Izalith's fury… look how pitifully they fared against that lone dragon.

In all truth, he should have risen by now. Lifted his non-existent limbs, walked an unmentionable distance to slay a less than noteworthy number of hollows that still infected the streets of his home like rats in a gutter. Speaking of gutter, which one of his reliable brethren also rid of their physical forms had been damned to patrol the never-ending flow of mutated rodents below? Were there any down in the Depth's to begin with, or had his _King_ not seen it fit to depart his useful men of integrity and fodder to be slaughtered by a den of poisonous vermin? Were his kind only ever useful for standing guard beside Gwyn's forward daughter or propping up their shields to defend divinity that stood two full feet taller than themselves?

Why hadn't his body moved yet, he wondered in the deep recesses of his already fractured mind. Yes, he had fought a Darkwraith dressed like him and been roasted alive… no, not alive. Wasn't he dead for nearly a millennium now? His flesh had been turned to ash, even his soul was set ablaze – a thing he thought was impossible – so he couldn't assume to be one of the living.

And yet he didn't feel like he was dead either… if he was truly dead, would his mind continue to work like it did? Would it agonize on why Gwyn's influence was still upon him or why he felt hatred when he had _chosen_ to follow the Sunlight Lord to the death? Wait, had he really done that? If so, where was the memory that proved it? He had been a brave Knight, not a stupid one. He would have remembered ever deciding to be his Lord's stepping stone.

His Lord… was that title still applicable now despite the god's betrayal? What had his commander told him that day? 'The wrong-doings of a King are blameless to his servants'? It made sense in a way. Silver and Black Knight's were superior beings of their own, they did not weep, grieve, lust, feel or hate anything for any reason. They all possessed a strong constitution, an indominable will… very much like the lost Wolf Knight of Lordran. Then again, he was no longer a Knight, now was he? Wait, _what_ was he, a ghost like those in the flooded ruins of New Londo? And if so, what use was his pathetic pride now? Did the fact that he was once fanatically loyal matter? What did that coward of a commander even know about him? Who was he to determine if he could hate or not and why were all his questions unanswered?

With a whisper of a sigh, the Black Knight rose his upper half into a sitting position and gazed at the torched area before him. His armour inhaled deeply, making it sound more metallic than anything else. Needless to say, there wasn't much to look at through his charcoal visor besides burnt hollows and the clouds above. It was a strange sensation to be sitting idle like this, he mused and patted his legs gingerly with a sinister gauntlet.

Good, they were still usable. He had thought they were but piles of useless metal after that dragon's flames had engulfed him. Wyvern, he corrected. Damn the idiot that had mistaken that breed for the more sinister beast. He absently thought of going after the Hellkite as he rose to his feet silently, retrieving his shield as he did so. Commander Arkon of the third legion would have been the perfect Knight to ask for aid when it came to the scaled beasts. He was revered above all the others for his strength and valour against the Everlasting Dragons. A Commander the Black Knight looked up to once upon a time. Bards had sung of Arkon the Dragonkiller in taverns and on the brightly lit streets of Anor Londo for eons as the days went by. He had inspired Knight and guardian alike in those days, created a standard all Silver Knight's worked to achieve with reckless abandon. Would Arkon have understood him better than his Commander if he were to witness and feel the same pain echoing through the Knight's mind like a malicious nightmare?

The Black Knight began to walk.

He somehow didn't feel the influence of Gwyn nagging him to continue his meaningless guard of the lower Burg, he didn't feel the unstoppable call of duty that had boxed him into this sad little part of town. Was it due to his sword melting, or maybe dragon fire had actually done him good instead of harm? Was it because of the Darkwraith?

That crafty fiend had been a clever one from the beginning of their duel. He had known that interaction would trigger his hostility, knew that he would give chase were the wraith to run, and of course he had known that he would have lost his advantage if he led them towards the flat terrain. The Knight wouldn't have been surprised if the Darkwraith had been the one to summon the Hellkite to their location in the first place. That particular breed of Wyvern was known to favour high places to roost rather than hunt for prey, it was a lazy lizard. The only way it could have appeared would be if it had been agitated and lured there… or the unspeakable; tamed.

That Darkwraith had known something about the Hellkite's approach, why else would he have shoved him before diving into that small cottage for cover? Was his hearing and eyesight on par with Knight Gough? The Black Knight thought not.

Along the side of the ascending stairway, the clattering of the Knight's torched armour sounded into the air as it carried the troubles of this desolate world away. How many other sounds had the gentle breeze taken around to different levels, Burgs and cities so far? How loud were they? How full of malice, pain, anger, regret and joy was each stroke of wind, and were the recipients of it hearing them via whispers or loud roars? Lordran, they all called it, flocked to it like crows. The land of Ancient Lords. If the Black Knight had a mouth, he would have laughed. Where were such beings now that their precious Flame was beginning to fade?

The Knight had been there when Lady Gwynevere packed up what little of her maidens remained and fled with the Flame God. How much more disgraceful could the 'Queen of Sunlight' be to abandon her throne like that after her father's sacrifice? The Knight had a reason to hate his former King, he had been lied to from the day he claimed his own soul from the First Flame, but the daughter of Gwyn? She had known all along the plans that bearded old man held for Anor Londo's future, she had been apart of the decision-making, dammit! And when her elder brother had been exiled for doing what was right, the torch had immediately been passed into the redhead's hands. Who would have guessed that the only deity that clung to the Sunlight Lord's bicep would be the first to crack under the pressure and betray all her beloved father had sacrificed to build?

Was the title of Queen too much for her now that an actual monarch had fallen? The Knight supposed so, that good for nothing goddess had only ever been useful for flaunting her sagging flesh to that traitorous dragon when she wanted attention. How difficult was it to sit and wait for the Chosen Undead to enter your bedchamber anyways when you had the honour to converse with Knight Ornstein himself? She hadn't the decency to even rescue her daughter or wish Lord Gwyndolin farewell, at least _he_ had kept the kingdom afloat by scattering Silver Knight's around the Capital as a protective measure.

Gwyndolin was still every bit like his father, the Black Knight knew that, but he had used so much of his own power to make Anor Londo shine beautifully again, illusion or no. Even if the Knight couldn't really feel appreciation in his current state, his respect for the Darkmoon Lord was second to none. Perhaps he could have bargained with Flann to help relink the Flame with his divine power before spiriting away the Queen of Sunlight. He was the God of Flame, after all. Such divinity would have been the saving grace of Lordran many centuries ago. In some way at least.

The Black Knight absently kicked the sword of a fallen hollow and his body automatically reacted at the sound of metal clinking against stone, spinning his armour around and raising his shield. When the Knight realized what he had done, he lowered his arm and approached the blade reflecting the light against his helm. It was an ordinary longsword, nothing special as far as weapons went and the nicks and dull edges showed it had belonged to a foe of little intelligence. Even so the Black Knight bent over and picked it up.

It was strange. He found that was only way to put it; strange. From his dark thoughts and ill behaviour, even his sudden sense of opinion. They were all strange to him for the simple reason that they scared him. As a Silver Knight serving Gwyn, he hadn't known what fear, pain, or rebellion was. His only emotion had been stoicism, and the teachings of Ornstein, Artorias and Gwyn were that of loyalty, integrity, honour, obedience and sacrifice. After being set ablaze by the First Flame and becoming one of the few but deadly legion of Black Knight's, the feeling of despair and anguish had briefly filled him for nearly six or seven generations. However, for a being like himself to experience all these new emotions swimming within his armour almost felt sinful, blasphemous.

Nevertheless, the Knight stood tall, sheathing the worn blade within its metallic mate and continued to walk. This would do for now, despite its obvious flimsiness. He wouldn't very well fight with his gauntlets and shield, now could he? Briefly, he felt as if he were becoming human, as absurd as it was. No Knight of Gwyn had ever truly felt this hesitation, this confusion… this uncertainty. It was uncertainty, wasn't it? This pang of indecisiveness?

Then again, no Knight of Gwyn had ever been betrayed, burnt alive, forced to fight when there was nothing left to fight for and then left for dead when there was nothing a lowly soldier like him could offer. The Knight's thoughts lingered on whether his kind _did_ possess all these emotions in the first place, but they had just been _withheld_. It was true, the Knight was nothing like a human physically, although was that the same when it came to the mind?

The Black Knight shook his helm as he reached the sun-kissed sky blessing the ramparts with their warmth. It didn't matter whether these feelings were hidden to him or because of his fractured soul, he had no choice but to use them now that he was somehow free of Gwyn's divine authority. Perhaps now he could search Lordran for other Black Knight's like himself? If he was experiencing these humanly emotions, maybe his brethren were as well? However, thinking logically, he doubted another Knight would allow him the chance to explain himself before they tried to lop off his head for treason towards a deceased deity. How would he even _begin_ to converse without a mouth, tongue and set of lips anyways?

How the Knight wished that Archbishop Havel were still alive. He wasn't a god, but he was wiser than Gwyn and posed the right questions when everything in the kingdom began to go wrong. But that was a pipe-dream. Havel, the Rock was dead or gone insane by now, cursed to be stuck inside a tower no one knew the location of. Whatever wisdom _was_ in that bald head of his had blown away like dust on a high hill, far, far away from anyone's grasp.

The Black Knight turned and walked along the outer wall of Lordran. Since he was now free, he would start by looking for any sign of his fellow scorched brethren. Whether they chose to attack him or not was of no consequence to him, they were all husks like him now and would probably be grateful to be let out of their black cages of despair. Only one of them needed to bear the pain and regret of the rest, so why not him? He was already beyond saving anyways. Besides, if his mindless comrades did try to claim his life it wouldn't really matter… all he needed was one of their great sword's or halberds to continue his journey.

* * *

"ACHOO!" was what the Silver Knight before the archbishop heard before his helm was filled with tiny pebbles of saliva and his body was smashed into an alabaster wall.

"The hells up with you old man, that swing was sloppy!"

"You calling me weak, boy?!"

"I'm saying that all this fighting's squeezing out the dust from your grey lungs," Argon said, dodging a jab from a spear-wielding Knight and kicking him over the railing of the spiralling staircase the trio were standing on. "Concentrate, will you? We're currently in battle if your amnesic brain can comprehend that."

Havel grunted and lifted his Dragontooth up to block a strike meant to carve a crooked L-shape into Priscilla's back. He had taken up the younger undeads offer to slay a few Silver Knight's for the sport of it – an idea their cross-breed companion had stringently disagreed with – and test their mettle after so many years away from the Shinning City. Admittedly, when Argon had taken him to Firelink he had been against the idea of even sparing a glance for that reeking serpent of teeth and gurgling for the simple fact that Havel hated any beast that resembled dragons or had any acquaintance with that revolting Lord of Sunlight. However, after Priscilla's buttering up and a healthy dose of logic the masked man had conjured from nowhere, they had convinced him to at least greet Frampt. Now he knew why Priscilla always waited for the annoyingly optimistic undeads input before deciding anything, he could be _extremely_ convincing when he wanted to be. Forget that toothy bastard's brother Havel knew so little about, Argon was almost like them himself with that silver tongue of his.

So, with much grumbling and half-hearted glares at the masked undead, the bishop had walked up the broken steps of the weathered Firelink Shrine and met with Kingseeker Frampt. At least it had been a treat to see the otherwise calm and collected stinker stutter in utter shock before having the pride to ask if he were well. The snake wasn't a fool in any regard, those slitted eyes spoke tomes of knowledge with a simple glance, but it was a nice change to see the beast try and fail to explain how it was possible for him to _still_ keep his sanity after so many centuries. Havel knew that the Kingseeker had bade his time by sleeping for eons while in wait for the Chosen Undead to appear, it was the only way to possibly pass the time when you have a lifespan that lived passed that of a god. With that bit of information, it would have been an obvious assumption to anyone that the ugly snake would have been left out of the loop regarding how the undead of the current generation were able to tame the curse to some degree; and in his case, live long enough to bypass its inevitable disease.

They reached the rooftop of the spire they were climbing that led to two other parts of the castle. Near the farthest side, two Knight's stood watch, Dragonbow's in their hands as they took aim at Priscilla and Argon. Havel pushed passed the pair and raised his massive shield, arm jolting from the impact of the spear-like arrowheads. He dared to lift his gaze over the shield and saw the archers reloading before he darted into action, crushing the first Knight with his Dragontooth and batting the other's sword arm away with a flick of his shield. The Silver Knight on the floor wailed in pain before bursting into a mass of souls as the second strafed Havel with that composed dignity he hated so much. The bishop watched the Knight weigh his options for a moment, draw his shield in reply and rush in for an opening. Havel merely snorted in amusement before caving the fool's helm down into the space between his broad shoulders. The Knight resembled an illustration of that mythical Dullahan he had read so much about before collapsing and bursting into white.

After they had travelled to Anor Londo and taken the scenic route filled with lovely sentinel's, imps and a large gargoyle to kill, Argon had deemed it necessary to inform the bishop of his and the goddess' plan for when all Lord Soul's had been collected. Havel wasn't a betting man but somehow even he had guessed that Lordran's confirmed Chosen Undead wouldn't be keen to relink the Flame and claim the title of Lord of Cinder in the process. It wasn't because he had observed the undead religiously since their time together or stuck his nose into the man's passed to discover Gwyndolin and Frampt had both cooked up a lousy story to brainwash him from the truth – even though Havel had done both these things and come to realize Argon's actions via a completely different reason.

It was the simple, stupid and hilarious fact that Argon felt too self-important to risk his life for something as sacred as the First Flame. The memory of the cocky undead saying that he wasn't brave enough to commit eternal suicide but mad enough to die a thousand times just to claim a _single_ Lord Soul was now Havel's favourite one to note. The boy never ceased to amaze him, he swore.

While it was true that Frampt had carried out the wicked lies Gwyndolin had formed to back Argon into a corner, the undead had made it vital to explain that he bore the two of them no thoughts of revenge or ill-will. At the same time, he had also made it a point to mention that he hated that their 'only way out' had been to murder many innocent lives in search of 'true peace', Argon made it clear that to hate them for wanting to protect their kingdom was wrong.

Havel had begged to differ, he _still_ hated Gwyn and the other gods with a passion that would never fade for what they had done to him and the humans around him at that time. It was the only thing currently keeping him sane, he couldn't let that go, now could he. Besides, weren't old men like him infamous for carrying everlasting grudges? It would be a waste to live down the stereotype.

What amazed him most of all was the path Priscilla had taken. By all right, with Gwynevere gone and Lordran left without a Queen, the cross breed was eligible to take the seat beside her uncle. It wasn't like anyone could have denied her that right since Gwyn was basically trapped in the Kiln and every biased 'advisor' to the throne were either hollow or ash. Yet, instead of taking the path of royalty, riches and reclaiming her nobility, she had chosen to follow _that_ idiot that had been marked for death the moment he had escaped the Undead Asylum. What's more, after hearing Argon's decision to kill her father, claim his Lord Soul and then _not_ link the Flame, the only thing she had requested was what the three of them were to have for supper! The bishop had never seen such rebellion of an heiress before that stooped to so many low levels, broke every rule of order. He loved it!

So, with the understanding that Frampt and the Lord of the Darkmoon was never to know of their plan, the three of them were to not link the Flame, yet simultaneously _not_ let it die out… maybe the older undead had been drunk on the Estus he couldn't get enough of but just how ambiguous was the masked man's main objective? It was either one or the other in this regard. Link or not relink the First Flame and he wanted to craft a _third_ option from scratch?! Well he wasn't saying it was an impossible goal, just an unorthodox one. It wasn't like he wasn't going to join them in whatever this journey to the Kiln was, there was still some proud Lightning God smashing he had to do.

"Alright, that should be most of them." Argon said with a light pant. After much jogging and Silver Knight slaying Havel was feeling pretty good about himself. Not only had his skills not dulled whilst trapped in that blasted tower but it seemed the fighting style of the Knight's he had previously trained millennium ago had changed. To face such opponents with such vigour was exhilarating to the bishop. Perhaps these new Knight's didn't know a single thing about him after the old ones had perished but one thing was certain; nobody, not even unperturbed Silver Knight's were prepared for the great Havel, the Rock when he was about to smite the world with his almighty justice. He had to say he rather enjoyed the momentary hesitation in the Knight's that faced him before they were easily swatted to the side like ragdolls.

"Someone tell me why we decided to come to the main hall of Anor Londo again," the archbishop replied and looked down the high walls towards the two royal sentinels guarding the passageway to the Throne Room. "If I'm not mistaken, our goal was to locate my treasure trove and then head for that blasphemous Duke, no offense."

"No offense taken." Priscilla waved him off as simply as shooing a pesky fly. He didn't blame her for hating that naked lizard, he was a bastard for creating a child for the science of it in the first place. Seath was more pathetic than even Gwyn in that aspect, what father dumped his daughter into a warped world painted by a warped mind just because she couldn't produce more scales for him to extract and experiment on? Furthermore, who the hell did that winged lizard think he was to put Havel inside a dog-box? Did he honestly think a simple tower would have kept him from seeking revenge, tearing off the pale things wings and cooking them in a stew that would go down nicely with some moss?

Argon shook his head and pointed to a door on the wall parallel to the one they were standing next to. There was another door leading to a lower floor. "That exit or entrance – I'm not sure how you see it – leads to a noteworthy smith. A smith capable of ascending weaponry to god-like qualities _and_ he sells shards of titanite."

Priscilla and Havel rolled their eyes and sighed in unison. Here he went again.

"Oh, come on! Do you know how difficult it is to find decent materials in this land? Almost every new piece of weaponry and set of armour I pick up along our travels only resonates with twinkling shards of the obsidian rock. It's like these armaments are spoilt children wanting beef pieces in their cream stew! I can barely find enough of the shiny rocks to reinforce my goddamn _boots_."

Titanite, shards of obsidian of different forms that once belonged to great slabs long ago. With one, you could craft armour and weapons so powerful the ground itself would be torn asunder, Ornstein's spear was proof of that. Argon's companions knew for a fact that such materials were hard to find but agonising over them was pointless. If you didn't have them, you didn't have them. End of story. The masked undead, however, had a different opinion.

They had seen him halt their journey to explore various areas of the kingdom that seemed absolutely pointless only for the undead to excitedly hop from one foot to the other in elation when he discovered a large piece of the material buried in the sand or stuck on high peaks – how they landed in crags and inside chests were another story altogether.

"Look, I understand Twinkling Titanite is hard to come by and it's probably sold for exorbitant prices, but it's necessary for me to acquire." The undead continued to argue whilst Havel raised his shield to block an arrow the length of a spear. It seemed another archer was nearby, the damned pests and their Dragonbow's. Priscilla followed the bishops gaze as a few more Silver Knight's climbed up the stairs flanking the main hall. They looked like the party the trio had decided to leave in that joined bedchamber earlier.

Without wasting a breath, they charged forward, straight swords raised before a pillar of flames rose up and torched three of them to ash. Havel and Priscilla turned their heads to Argon as he splayed his hand wearing the pyromancer glove and blasted the next Knight in the chest, sending him tumbling back down the stairs. "Could the two of you please listen to me when I'm trying to explain myself."

"Fine, fine, we'll listen," Havel said. What was up with this guy, hadn't they already been on this topic one too many times? "Havel, your armour's strong enough to withstand Logan's Soul Spear-"

"Who's that supposed to be again?" the bishop interrupted, earning him a growl from the masked undead.

"-and Priscilla's Life Hunt was literally made to slay gods with a simple swing." He continued as they began to walk around the floor they were on towards the other side rather than descend to face a pair of Royal Sentinels. The Knight from before appeared at the foot of the staircase again, a perfectly large burn mark adorning his left side. He weakly lifted his sword up before the goddess swung her scythe, causing his helmed head to bounce on the marble floor with a clatter of metal.

"The point I'm trying to make is that without that Titanite, I'm useless in a battle against one of the Ancient Lords."

"And yet the ability you possess that allows you to wield any weapon from your bottomless box is thrown out of the window." Havel replied with another grunt as he blocked another spear-length arrow. Argon was a beast on the field of battle, it was no lie. In an instant he could switch from a small dagger to a sneaky polearm and gain any advantage. Even Havel, as a man of the Rock had been hard-pressed to best him in that tower when he had dropped Artorias' great sword and grew that Demon Hammer to finish him off.

The masked undead also had a terribly brutal side to him. Havel had only witnessed it for a few moments while facing those Silver Knight's in the castle barracks, but it was enough to make him change his mind on making Argon angry, ever. His hand-to-hand combat had been like a flash of lighting; quick, accurate and devastating. The ferocity in what had occurred later had been like a nightmare, however. In all Havel's time as a warrior he admitted he had never truly seen a man _tear_ off his foe's arm and use it to beat a wounded man into a bloodstain on the floor, or use a shield to sever another person's limbs through platemail… or sever a Knight's head and use it as a project- okay, he should probably stop before that memory made him queasy again.

"He has a point, Argon." Priscilla nodded as she flicked the blood off from her scythe.

"Alright, I guess that skill of mine is pretty uni- cover your head!" Havel jumped in front of the goddess and deflected another arrow from that annoying archer they were closing in on.

"Could you please do something about him? It's hard to concentrate when someone's throwing pebbles at you with a shiny slingshot."

Argon ran for the archer, dodging another spear-length arrow with a quick roll before he delivered a kick to the Knight's chest. He drew a Silver Knight's sword from the sheathe on his hip and sliced downwards, knocking the large bow from the Knight's hand before ramming his shoulder into him, making his foe stumble for the second time.

"Head down that passageway, I'll meet up with you afterwards!" he shouted to his companions as the Knight he was fighting drew an identical sword. Priscilla noticed one of the Royal Sentinels turn its visor to him and took a large step forward. Her eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to call out to him. The last time they had come here one of those sentinels had nearly severed the undeads body in half because of her negligence. She knew he could handle them better now that he was stronger but that didn't mean she wanted to see him hurt like that again.

"Easy there," Havel placed a gauntlet on her shoulder and she turned to him in confusion. He was going to allow Argon to face foes four times his size and height in the assumption that he would survive? "Let him have this one. Since our departure from the Burg he hasn't exactly been himself, has he?"

The goddess frowned but nodded in agreement. After Argon's restless night he hadn't seemed the same, despite the cheerful persona he had used. He didn't enjoy sharing the burden he was forced to bear, the only trait he had that she disliked fervently, so she knew Argon wasn't going to mention any doubts or worries he had. At this point it was probably best to just leave him be and allow him to let off some steam. Besides, seeing a blacksmith wasn't really a bad idea, no matter how ridiculous the masked man's reasoning was.

She dared a look back at her beloved saviour a moment before he blocked another slash from the Silver Knight in front of him. He wouldn't explain what strife he was currently enduring or even mention the toll that abyssal corruption was having on him despite all they had been through together. The reason was simply because he was Argon; and Argon may have had many friends, comrades and allies on the surface but _inside_ he was still the same lonesome undead that escaped the Asylum. The topic of change was a difficult subject to people that spent their entire lives under one bureaucratic system. In the undeads case, the sensation of friendly company was probably the most alien feeling in the world when you had to watch that your own shadow didn't manifest into something that could kill you.

So, with her mind made up, Priscilla turned away from the masked undead and descended into the passageway with Havel. Argon was still pistanthrophobic and hesitant to even share what he had eaten for breakfast in the morning but that didn't mean she would give up on him, even if he tried to push her away. She loved him after all, so she had to try and reach the deepest part of him when no one else would. What woman wouldn't want to discover every little facet of the man she loved, after all?

* * *

Argon, meanwhile, for some odd reason felt the strangest urge to sneeze, as if someone had dangled a feather against the tip of his nose. He knew the castle of Anor Londo was centuries old and that it had basically been abandoned for most of that time, but he had never seen a speck of dust on its floor or against the large windows. As he deflected another blow from the Silver Knight before him he briefly entertained the idea that he was catching a cold before he chuckled at the image of him battling an Ancient Lord with a runny nose. How absurd, undead couldn't get sick, just afflicted with the numerous types of diseases and poisons that could kill you on the spot if you didn't watch out for your enemies' weapon. Who knew skeletons using the same scimitar's as you could make your bleed to your death with a few small bows, or that that black stuff those ugly basilisks blew out in the Depths could _curse_ you?

The Knight before him raised his shield as Argon swung his sword and a loud clang rang out before the undead was forced to roll backwards from a swipe that would have slit his throat. This one seemed to be more of a hassle that the rest they had faced in the castle until now and Argon grunted. Just what he needed, another cocky dumbass in shiny tinsel.

He saw the sentinel to the right approach and sighed. They only noticed you at the worst possible time. Argon dropped into a low crouch as the Knight swung his blade in a wide arc, his cape fluttering in the wind. Seriously, what was up with the capes on every Silver Knight and Berenike Warrior? They just got in the damn way when you were in battle. Even Artorias was smart enough to think it was useless, why else had he torn off that deep blue shoulder cape fitted into his armour? Or perhaps it had torn because he was in battle so much? The undead couldn't place it, he just thought capes were dumb.

Argon spun in his current position and scored a clean cut through one of the Knight's ankles, making him drop to one knee as his balance was destroyed. The Royal Sentinel was beginning to close in fast, so Argon did the only thing that seemed logical; by kicking the Knight off the ledge and into the sentinel's helm, making both fall flat against the ground. As both fell, the undead felt the hall shake from the force and looked up at the glass ceiling. When it was clear it wasn't going to crack and fall like a shower of sharp needles, Argon turned back to the fallen sentinel as it rose, crushed the Knight on top of it by squeezing until the poor fellow burst into souls and picked up that massive halberd it carried around. Well now… who would have guessed sentinels were capable of showing emotion, and anger at that?

The borderline insane undead was about to launch himself from his perch, intent on testing if a Silver Knight's blade could pierce the things helm when something in his pouch vibrated. He frowned and allowed his eyes to move to his side. It was true that facing a Royal Sentinel was difficult but running away from one on the other hand was like challenging a man with no legs to a jumping contest.

He dug into his hip-pouch as the second sentinel finally found it pertinent to acknowledge his existence and drew a cracked orb that looked as if it had sucked up all the darkness in an unlit room. What caught the undeads attention – or eye in particular – was the large, menacing eyeball encased within the crystal orb that stared at him with unfathomed rage.

_Damn, if looks could kill… _

Argon remembered this item, he had picked it up along with Anastacia's bloodied clothing and soul. The item that golden-armoured bastard had left behind after killing the poor woman due to his own boredom, 'enough of her…' he had said the last time Argon had met him resting at Firelink. The Chosen Undead immediately dropped his façade and adopted the mood he had been feeling from the beginning of that day; enraged.

The eye within that orb was calling out to him somehow, beckoning that innermost part of him, he could feel it somehow. The more it vibrated, the more the small buzzing inside his head became a hornets' nest of screaming, shouting, crying, roaring, and laughing. Actions he was extremely familiar with…

A sadistic smile cracked Argon's features behind his mask as the orb transfixed him, making his body begin to vibrate according to same frequency as all sound and physical beings blended into the vanguard of his sub-conscious. For a moment, Argon felt as though he were holding onto that occultic club of Havel's except for the fact that he could still feel his emotions… deep, dark emotions dressed in in a calm cloak of madness. It stared at him from within his imagination and without thinking he stretched out a hand to grasp at it, suddenly feeling a rush of urges he didn't know he had possessed until now.

Yes… he had forgotten what it was like to feel so compelled to kill, to want to bath in red and watch as his enemies' blood congealed against his pale skin. The euphoria of murdering his victim, whether innocent or not and absorbing the mass of souls that expelled from them when their Darksign's activated.

He had missed the scent of rusted metal, the scent of old and new iron as the coppery blade dived head first into the throats of his victims. He recalled how sweet those desperate gurgles sounded to his sharp ears, or how the body he would begin to dissect piece by piece afterwards would give that cute spasm, a sign that the body was still very much alive – trying to hold onto whatever life remained – as pathetic as it looked from his point of view.

But wait, hadn't he killed all those Silver Knight's already? Hadn't had had his fun, ripping off limbs, carving in new holes where they didn't belong and hearing cries of anguish that shouldn't ever be heard? Wasn't the need to needlessly slaughter for worthless souls finished now?

The vibration of his body increased, and a small ring of the ancient language sprung to life around his body as he dropped to one knee, still smiling so widely the ends of his mouth began to split open.

_No_.

Of course, it wasn't enough. Not when he heard the names of the next batch of sinners being called out in the world beyond the orb he held. Not when the need for revenge festered inside of his cold heart like maggots to an infected wound – something so putrid even crystal-clear water couldn't wash it clean. He wasn't finished yet, not by a _long_ shot.

How many more Knight's were there patrolling the castle eve now, he wondered. How many of them had he left inside that joined room a few floors above him? Four? Five? Possibly six? He didn't know for sure, but he _wanted_ to go back there and finish them off. They were nothing but wasted space, anyways, what harm would there be if a few more of the so called 'powerful' Knight's of Gwyn departed from this already twisted land they assumed they were protecting? At least Lordran's population would be small enough to manage a ruined economy! But he _hadn't_ decided to let those Knight's live, did he? No, it had been his companions, his comrades, his… friends?

Yes, those people. The woman with the tail and the man with the club, they had agreed to let them go, not him. Why did he allow them to make that decision for him? Why had he not said anything then when they were at that wooden door?

Was it because he wasn't the man he once was? The tortured man with scars deeply imbedded into his soul like stitches on a doll. He hadn't said anything because he didn't _want_ to kill anymore, just avoid conflict. That's right, he wasn't merciless anymore to his enemies but filled with integrity… filled with honour, that's why he had spared the old man with the club. That's why he had stopped using _that_ set of armour and the mask that came with it… because he was a good person now. He was _whole_ again, the woman with the tail… pris… prisck… prince- no _Priscilla_. She had made him whole again, she had repaired his fractures. He was the nicer _him_ because of _her_. He shouldn't be thinking about killing anymore, not when he had a mission – a goal! Yes, he had a goal. To… collect the soap stones in Lordran, was it?

No, that wasn't it! It was important, necessary, vital, paramount and any other fancy word that meant he needed to do it immediately. Because, if he didn't… if he failed, the world would suffer. The world… was that his goal, to save the world? Yes! That was it! He had to save the world, he had to help the helpless, cure the diseased! He had to…

**_Kill those Silver Knight's._ **

They had escaped him, taunted him with those quiet helms of theirs, laughed at him when their blades touched his exposed skin, _smiled_ when he had died over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over _and over and over and over and **over.** _

That woman was to blame. So was that man. THEY had stopped him, why did they stop him?! He wanted to kill, to hurt, to maim, to wound, to _be_ hurt in return… it was their fault. They needed to pay. They need to suffer for stopping him, for not noticing his burning wrath against the sinners, against the Knight's! Oh, he knew! He would just kill them.

_Crunch _in the man's face, snap his bones, pull out his spine and use it to impale him. He would _crunch_ her too – no – he would do more than that, he would **_break_ **her… she didn't need her hands, did she, or her legs? What about those pretty little eyes of hers and snow-white hair? He had wanted them from the time he saw her, he could _borrow_ them, couldn't he? They were **_friends_ **after all…

_What? No… I can't do that…_

Why couldn't he?! She was _his_ to begin with, he found her, so he kept her!

_But she's not a toy… I was the one that gave **her** a toy. She's not a sinner, not a Knight, not even a human! She was to be **protected**._

But she's a goddess.

_That… doesn't matter. She's not like them, neither is Havel._

Who was Havel again? Was it that tree with the pronged leaves? The red and yellow ones!

_Not 'maple', Havel. He's my… my friend. I can't hurt him, I won't hurt him. I won't hurt anyone! I'm not the same anymore, I'm not-_

Not what? A Lithecore?

Argon's hands began to shake uncontrollably as his mind was taken by the cracked red-eye orb he stared almost longingly at. His teeth began to clatter and a foreign chuckle – too twisted to be normal – escaped from his smiling face. He couldn't see in front of him anymore as wispy lines of white fog began to surround him, deafening his now bleeding eardrums from the loud thundering steps of the sentinel that raced after his prone form, its comrade close behind.

With a final step it raised the hulking halberd in its hand, ready to cleave the undead before it in half. As more fog enclosed Argon in an orb of his own the Royal Sentinel brought his weapon down, the air whistling before it met the white marble platform with enough force to break it into two rough halves. The sentinel retrieved its weapon and backed up. It saw no undead or blood-smear and turned its visor round to survey the main hall. When its shadowed eyes found nothing out of place and no Chosen Undead in sight, it turned back around with its comrade and returned to its position guarding all from entering the Throne Room and Princesses Chamber.

* * *

The sensation of falling wasn't uncommon to Argon. If he could have it his way, he would choose to jump over a bottomless pit just to revel in the rush such an action offered. It was like a shock to the brain, a ward from the burden he carried from holding the title of Chosen Undead. A fluffy cloud that reminded him of his companion's lovely tail. When he fell he let go of all the pain he had ever felt, ignored all the tasks on his mental itinerary to just become one with the air that pressed against his cheeks.

Falling made him forget the scars decorating his body, and oh were there many. He couldn't recall ever keeping an accurate tally of them but they all marked a memory for him. Some memories he could remember, and others he drew a blank. They were as fickle as the black separation crystals he used when summoning phantoms.

Falling was more of a pleasure than a pain to Argon, a way to relax, unwind, breath. Yet for some odd reason, as he fell into the nothingness around him all he felt was pain. Not the sharp white daggers that would peel his skin when injured but a deep, untouchable pain that no Estus could heal, no scripture could cure and no prayer to Velka could help ease. As he fell, the noise in his head fought for dominance – the rational against the insane – as his mouth again contorted into a smile he didn't want to wear, utter a laugh he didn't want to even hear.

He gasped as the orb in his hand shattered to pieces, plastering his open hand with a thousand shards of black as the eye within it turned to powder. It wasn't that he could feel the pain in his hand, it was that the blackness around him began to penetrate his soul, fill his undead heart with emptiness as cold as ice as he continued to fall in this bottomless void. Perhaps this was how his weapons and armour felt trapped inside of his inventory? Granted, they couldn't feel due to being inanimate, but it was still a scary thought.

And then, as if things couldn't get any worse than they already were, Argon was greeted by a shadowy figure he thought would have died with the many decades he had spent in the Asylum or purged when ventured into that accursed land to release Artorias; a human memory.

* * *

As the sun began its glorious descent into the high mountains surrounding Lordran, Lithecore lifted his head up from the waterlogged tome he had been trying to decipher. There had been a change in the wind, he felt it. The Darkwraith turned pulled down his cowl and walked passed one of his subordinates dressed in full attire, a hand against the hilt of his sword. The wind he had felt had blown to the west, cooing to the birds as it relayed news of what it had witnessed.

Lithecore quickened his pace from pacing to a stride as he approached the opened floodgates of New Londo, ignoring the ghost in front of him as he walked right through it and into the last rays of sunlight for the day. His bright eyes glowed like embers under the shade of the Valley of Drakes as he looked skyward, ears listening to the whistling wind before it left the vicinity entirely. He had heard something, something he had been waiting for patiently. There was no way he could have imagined it either, not when it had been so clear that it was as if someone had whispered right into his ear.

"What are you doing outside?" Kirk asked as pissed off as ever, a frown on his helmed features as he observed his second in command. "You were told to ready the wraiths."

The commander of the Darkwraith's stared at Lithecore in mild worry. It was a first for him to disobey an order so casually – and ignore him in the process as if he were some pigeon that had landed on his boot. He wasn't acting any strangely than normal – usually he was bloody insufferable – but his expression seemed like something the Knight of Thorns had truly never seen before; uncharacteristically perturbed. Or was befuddled the right word? He couldn't put a name to it properly.

Just as he was about to say something to the wraith, Kirk noticed a particular smile appear on his face that he had only ever seen a few times before, one that thoroughly freaked him out every time it appeared.

And then, as if a switch was spontaneously flicked inside of the human-sized pillar of insanity before him, Lithecore began to laugh. It started out as a soft giggle before transforming into that weird chuckle he liked to use.

But it didn't stop there.

As soon as the wraith began to laugh louder, his shoulders started to shake violently, his arms trembled, making his armour clatter noisily in the open space and Kirk frowned as the edges of Lithecore's mouth began to split and bleed, as if they couldn't hold the smile he was using. The Commander heard him take a few gasps of air in between chuckles that sounded more like he was choking on his own tongue before a sound so unearthly escaped from his open mouth that the birds began to scatter in disarray.

It was almost as if an abyssal creature from the whatever pit Kaathe was born from had awoken in his fellow Darkwraith. The noise that was supposed to be a laugh grated against the Commanders ears so loudly that they began to bleed themselves.

"Lithecore! What are yo-"

"FINALLY!" the wraith screeched and gripped his breastplate. His eyes were wide and filled with bloodshot veins that turned his amber irises an odd violet, which was strange to the Darkwraith Commander. Weren't amber and red supposed to make some type of ugly brown or darker shade of amber?

Lithecore fell to his knees as the sensation of pure bloodshed and malice entered his mind, blocking his thoughts and filling him with pure ecstasy as he cackled madly, a hand still gripping the space above his heart as it beat faster than it ever had. That was right, he hadn't been wrong after all. This feeling, the calm before the storm, the flashes of lightning before his eyes as the world around him went white with noise, the need to devour _something_ despite the fact that he wasn't hungry. The pure urge to shred, tear, rip, break, pull apart and crush _everything_ in his path was euphoric, _stupendous_!

**Finally**, it was time. _He_ was ready to remember, the return to what _they_ once were. The pain and pleasure began to mix into one clear stream of understanding as Lithecore drew an orb from a pouch on his hip, his smile growing again as blood ran freely in a small stream at the ends of his mouth. Kirk noticed was he holding and step forward quickly.

"What are you doing with that? Do not abscond from my ord-"

"_Something_ of great _importance_ just came up. I need to _stir_ the waters a bit."

Kirk placed a firm hand on the wraiths armoured shoulder. This attitude was annoying him for two reasons. One – his subordinate had been given an order, Lithecore had _never_ disobeyed a direct order before, not even stepped out of line despite his obvious lack of obedience; and two – the wraith in Black Knight armour didn't even have enough of a _life_ to attend to something of 'great importance'.

Whatever he had come to Darkstalker Kaathe for, it was obvious that his desire wasn't to purge all humanity. It didn't take a Dragon Scholar to point out some of the most notable traits about the cackling fool either. That pale skin of his almost resembling royalty of Carim had never experienced the sensation of intense wrinkles and malnutrition when half-hollowed since he arrived in Lordran. If the Darkwraith Commander remembered correctly, Lithecore had never really been killed in battle to begin with, he was just that good at combat. At first Kirk had just assumed his subordinate was a human hiding under the guise of an undead but after watching him closely as he fought, slept and spoke it was clear his second in command was anything but. What human could manage to continuously warp in and out between abyssal portals and wield those heavy great swords so casually?

The other issue was souls. Every Darkwraith, irrespective of what species they all were underneath those skull-face masks had joined under his master's banner for one purpose; greed. They were all minions of the talking serpent, yes, but they also possessed a will of their own and acted according to what that will dictated, whether it be a lust for power, humanity, souls, slaughter and so forth. Lithecore, in that regard, had been the odd one out. Besides the fact that he acted like he had humanity for days, Kirk had honestly never seen him actually absorb a single soul before. He had seen the various moments whereby Lithecore had used Life-Drain on a person and crushed the empty husk under his heel but had never seen the translucent swirl of soul's dive into him as it did for Kirk.

Perhaps the wraith was simply storing them in soul capsules like one did with a multitude of humanity? He didn't know but one thing was clear about the man with black-veins; he was just using the Darkwraith's as a resting place, a bookmark until he found what he was looking for. It was a smart move in his opinion, using a covenant that availed you the benefit of travelling to anywhere in the kingdom while in search for something or someone. It didn't matter how many undead you needed to slay, murder and drain of life; just so long as your agenda would be fulfilled, the lengths you have go through were barely noteworthy. Kirk knew this too well, it had been _his_ plan when he had first arrived in Lordran too.

"Alright then," he said to the smiling wraith. If he had found what he had been looking for, there was no use stopping him and Kirk wouldn't risk it. After all, if anyone had tried to separate him and Quelaan they would leave using their severed limbs as crutches.

"But make it quick. If Master comes to know, I won't be the one to provide a suitable alibi."

If possible, the wraith's smile grew wider and he crushed the orb in his hand. The Knight of Thorns took a few steps back to avoid the enchantment of ancient runes that circled his subordinate, it would be a hassle if the wraith teleported with on of the Commander's legs inside the spell's circle. Thick, white fog covered him like a blanket as the Darkwraith cackled ominously, the sound growing fainter and fainter as more fog covered him, obscuring any view of the prone man before the circle convulsed once and pulled his second in command into another dimension, leaving nothing but wet earth behind.

And in an instant, Lithecore began to fall into nothingness, reaching his hand out to grasp at the hallucination before him dressed in shinning white, wearing a porcelain mask.

* * *

**I completely forgot to give you guys a word bank in the previous chapter, please forgive me.**

* * *

**Word bank: **

**_Pistanthrophobia/Pistanthrophobic – _(n.) Fear of trusting people due to negative past experiences.**

* * *

**Now, I will admit, this chapter didn't feel that grand to me. I had been doing bits and pieces of it throughout the week and I was getting kinda frustrated that I couldn't form anything concrete except for the awakening of the Black Knight in the beginning. After a few snorkel-dives into other fanfics both related and unrelated to Dark Souls, I finally did receive the inspiration I had been needing to finish this chapter, so thank you to SevenRenny, Alan Blaster and MungoJerry for taking my mind off of being quarantined, the fact that my college keeps changing the bloody due dates for my assignments and the stress of no damn business until COVID-19 has been stabilized.**

**Now, the gang will be splitting up as you've probably already guessed, so it'll allow you guys the chance to see the individual stories of Havel, Laurentius, Argon/Priscilla and various other characters that will be coming soon.**

**Argon's little personality problem was caused by his need for revenge against a certain fellow in gold armour. He breaks down like this due to the Cracked Black-Eye Orb blurring the lines between undead and human emotions/thoughts which force his to relive a few memories as a human before death. Now, I understand that this doesn't happen in canon and I'm bending the lore quite ridiculously, but I'll remind you that this is still fanfiction. So such absurd theories can be accepted in most cases. The next chapter will feature Argon's past that I mentioned in earlier chapters as well as the reason him and Lithecore are so closely connected (since they share the same face and stuff, 'ya know?).**

**I mention the Black Knight talking about a Sliver Knight named 'Arkon'. If you read the Dark Souls comics by Ryan O'Sullivan dubbed 'The Age of Fire', that character is given audience. If you were wondering if I got Argon's name from that Knight, it's a solid 'no'. Argon – or St. Argon at the time – was the name of my avatar when I first played Dark Souls. Besides, I only found these comics recently.**

**Also, I'd like to apologise for something I wrote about in this chapter. I only did it because I was relaying the fractured thoughts of Argon, but after reading over it and realizing just how dark it sounds, I really feel bad. As to what I'm referring to, it's the part where Argon looks at Havel and Priscilla as enemies.**

**The whole explanation of what he'd do to their bodies was… (*shudders) I hope I don't have to write about the idea of tearing my favourite cross breed to pieces _ever_ again, mad Argon is bad Argon that gives me nightmares! Please forgive me Priscilla, I promise that nothing like that will happen. _EVER!_ **

**On a MUCH lighter note, how many of you have seen that heart-warming symphony in Italy? Seeing the entire country sing merrily despite the terrible conditions is what true humanity and humility is. What a beautiful country and what beautiful people…**

**Lastly, a quick question: are p.m.'s on the Fanfiction app even going through to people? I've sent quite a few myself but I honestly don't know if they even reached the people I attempted to communicate with. If they are going through, then of course the simple answer is that people don't want to reply to a plethora of words conjured by yours truly. I kinda have a problem regarding word count when I praise a person's work…**

**Anyhow, please do R R (come on ampersand, stay with me!), I'd love to hear your thoughts, ideas and opinions. Flames are always welcome as I love to improve at everything I do! (ooh! That kinda rhymed, I'm on a role here).**

**P.S. – don't bother flaming if you've got nothing useful to add to this fandom. Useless ranting is called slander, do that to someone who'll be offended by your meagre attempts to verbally annoy people. With that being said, have a lollipop and keep on skippin' mah boy! (*hands reader a Fizzpop)** **Be like that fellow... whatzhisname**

**-_ GrandapJesse_**

**Yes, him! Why I say, I get the goosebumps when he offers his much needed opinions, I do.**

**-_now I just feel bad for the guy._**

**And why's that? (*raised eyebrow)**

**_-well it's because... never mind._**

**Aw, come on, why do have to make me seem like such a weirdo?! (*sulks in a dark corner)**

**-_(*turns to readers) you get what I have to deal with every day?_**

**Stay safe, take precautions, wear a mask, and cover your bloody mouth when you cough or sneeze! I'm looking at you, Havel.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Thanks to a new reviewer that's been keeping me on my toes with questions and critical responses (which I'm bloody enjoying), I've finally decided to stop stalling and correct the excruciating mistakes made in previous chapters. Currently, all chapters have been updated and possess a few new but small inclusions of explanation for various events in the story.**

**Again, does the pm system in this app work or am I just delusional because I haven't received a reply yet? Eh, either way please don't be afraid to message me via review if you have questions or via the abovementioned pm system.**

**Now, on with ze story!**

**_-this is the least you've ever said in an author's note._ **

**Yes, it is. That a problem for you?**

**_Oh, not in the slightest. In fact, I'm rather pleased with you! Congratulations._ **

**That… that's the first time you've ever complimented me (*begins to tear up)**

**_-shut your trap and begin the story already._ **

**Al*_sniff_ *right.**

* * *

_"What's this?" asked the man in teal robes and white gold, as he stood staring at young boy strapped to a rotting chair. "You wet yourself in your sleep again, didn't you?"_

_"N-N-No S-Sir! It was t-the r-r-rain…"_

_"Now, now, dear boy… rain doesn't smell like this and you know it. Did you forget how much I hate lies?"_

_The boy in the chair sucked in a breath through cracked lips and shook his head as fast as he could. The second-long convulsions his body made chaffing his bare skin against the thick leather straps that bound him._

_"N-No S-S-Sir… forg-give me."_

_"Ah, so you **were** lying after all?" the man smirked as the boy's eyes widened. He was turning out to be more submissive than he had hoped for… this was good. It wouldn't do to have a slave that disobeyed commands._

_"A-Actually Sir…"_

_"Hm?" the man hummed and looked at the boy._

_"Maybe… i-if these s-s-straps were loosed then I-I could have done it s-s-s-somewhere… a-ah, somewhere else…" the man merely raised an unamused eyebrow._

_"You expected me to remove the restraints, you say?"_

_"Y-Y-Yes Sir… i-if it isn't t-t-too much to ask- GAH!" the boy gasped loudly as the man in the expensive robes shoved a ringed thumb into one of his open wounds. The boy grit his teeth as his body began to shake violently from both pain and fear, and he suddenly realized that he had talked back. He shouldn't have done that._

_"Unbind **you**? Allow you to **relieve** yourself? Why in Lloyd's name would I release a **monstrosity **like **you**?!" he dug his entire thumb into the exposed wound and twisted. The boy uttered a loud scream that caused the dirty water submerging the floor to ripple. He shouldn't have spoken back, now he would just be punished further. "Do you think the butcher allows the pig his final moments to eat, to sleep, to crap his stomach out? Does the lumberjack feel sorry for the tree he cuts down mercilessly with his glistening axe?" with his other hand he grasped a handful of the boy's hair and roughly yanked his face up to look at him. Deep rings surrounded the boy's eyes, as if he hadn't slept in days and cheeks were sunken as if he had been starved of life itself._

_"No, my dear boy. They are not merciful, they are baseless, dark and vile at their work… just like **me**. They ensure the king gets to feed his face every morning and the foreigner's have a roof over their heads. Their job is to make the land rich in life and happiness, lesser beings aren't given a choice in the matter."_

_The man retrieved his thumb from the boy's re-opened wound and observed the redness coating it before snorting and wiping it across the boy's cracked lips. In favour of him being scared shitless to even respond, a soft whimper left him and made the man smile. He had been a fool to think that this garbage was ready to be inducted. This boy was more than broken, yes, but his mind was another matter. As it was, the child could barely speak properly in his presence, or anyone else's for that matter. He had done his best to prime him, mould and marble him perfectly like he would a tender pound of meat, but to no avail. It seemed more reconditioning was required with this filth._

_The man sighed and walked up to a small table blanketed by more dripping water and muck from the old room they stood in. The boy's bloodshot eye's, that had been trained on the rich man since his arrival, widened significantly as he watched him lift a small blade from the table, no smaller than a buttering knife. His body changed from shaking to a violent convulsion as he attempted to break free of his bindings with futile effort. He knew he would be punished if he spoke, he knew the consequences after experiencing it for who knew how long. So, why had he done it anyways? WHY had his mouth betrayed him like that, didn't his weakened mind know better than to stir a sleeping cobra?_

_"In this case…" he jolted as the man spoke, watching as his polished shoes took one, two, three steps to reach the chair he sat upon. Without meaning to, the boy gulped loudly, earning him a pleased look from the man before him. It would begin again, he just knew it. Why, oh **why** had he chosen to open his mouth at all today?_

_"You are nothing more than a piece of splintering wood and I, your carpenter. It is my job to turn you into what the people require, and in this town, the people require someone who cannot speak back."_

_He brought the blade close to the boy's tied-up wrists and smiled kindly at him. The boy wasn't fooled; however, such carelessness and it would mean more punishment in the end. The blade inched closer to his wrist before the man guided it downward to rest against the underside of his broken fingernail. With a rush of fear, anxiety, hysteria and hyperventilation, he accidently allowed his bladder to run. He felt the warm liquid release from his unmentionables and shame overtook him as he began to sob bitterly. The man above him simply chuckled in sick amusement as he started digging into the young boy's flesh._

_"Yes, when this is all over, you will be an abomination worthy to serve the people. For now, it is time for your daily **reward**…" _

* * *

The world blurred into a blot of dark ink, churning like a stormy sea and staining Argon's vision obsidian. His mind doubled over in the waves of his insanity as the figure in black continued to drag him to an unknown destination. He could still feel the shards of red crystal imbedded into his palm – how could he not when it bled profusely – but the pain was more a mild tingle than anything else. He felt his arm being tugged from the wrist to the left, the right, six steps downwards and ten more upwards.

He didn't know where he was going, he didn't need to know, the cells in his brain were only focussed on revenge, he trusted his feet to take him to whatever destination his prey lay in. That was the reason he had broken his own secret vow by allowing a crack to form in his dam of emotions.

What use were those false laughs? Those forced smile's, that agonizing way of speaking? What benefit did pretending to be happy _ever_ do for him besides make him sick to his core? Was it because he honestly _believed_ that all that time spent inside his cell in solitude had changed him? What, was becoming undead suddenly like turning over a new leaf, out with the old and in with the new? Pathetic.

He had lost his memories of being human, every undead did at one stage or another, but was that enough to reform the maniac still _breathing_? Of course not! An alleyway hag didn't change when wearing stolen clothing, now did she?

As the figure pulled him deeper and deeper into the void, Argon heard sounds, voices in the murky distance. Men conversing, possibly three or four of them, he didn't know for certain. What he did know was that he saw solid ground, the same black but clearly visible for some odd reason. He didn't question it as the figure in black let go of his wrist and allowed his boots to gently rest against the newly formed floor.

Almost immediately, the inky darkness around him thinned and his vision opened to witness a large hallway that almost completely resembled Anor Londo, were it not that everything was shrouded in charcoal. From the grand pillars to the glass ceiling, it was all shadowed, as if the area he was currently standing in were the alternate reality of the real world. Argon sniffed the air and rolled his unusually lighter shoulders. So, _this_ was what it felt like to invade another's domain.

"Ah, it seems… we have a guest." A deep, throaty voice echoed towards him, causing his hands to clench into fists.

_That_ _voice…_

Argon looked straight, towards the opposite end of the hall and saw a sight that made his corporeal form pulse with black strands of darkness. Lautrec stood with his arms crossed over his golden breastplate, his helm cocked to the side as he stared at his invader and chuckled. Covering his vanguard stood three more people coloured in hues of white, yellow and red, although he couldn't care less what they looked like or who they were. He just thought that they were in his way.

Rage began to bubble in his chest as he took large steps forward, building momentum with his lighter body as he drew his pronged Knight Spear from his inventory and growled at the traitor. He wouldn't need to rely on his sword just yet. Lautrec heard it and began to chuckle louder behind his helm, making his companions share twisted smiles of their own.

"I suppose your sense of justice turned you to seek me out after I put that cur out of her misery," the knight sighed and began walking forward, his companions following in a wide arc around him, weapons drawn. "a shame to put such beauty to waste over a few sprites, but then again, you wouldn't have been able to keep the mood going with how pitiful she looked if you _did_ decide to take her." Argon snarled at his remark and quickened his pace, his grip in his spear so strong it would have broken the shaft were it not Lordrian steel.

Lautrec, the Embraced. He had to scoff at that moniker. Embraced by who – or rather what – when all the sniggering shmuck of snobbery could ever hope to expect was being shanked by a hollowed thief for his greed. Cresty said he was loved by the goddess Fina? This filth was probably her floormat then, or a towel for when her hands got dirty. Who could ever love a sadistic sinner like him, not matter how sugar-coated his words were?

As the masked undead neared the quartet, Argon noticed one of the outlined sinners raise up a staff. To the extreme right, the one outlined in red drew another staff and a blade whilst the one in the middle held up a wall shield. Great, two sorcerers, a tank and a huge prick. The odds – like all these pathetic god's – were never in his favour. Well, what did he care, nothing was going to stop him now that Lautrec was here anyways.

"Oh, how this turn of events fails to sadden me… just remember I _did_ warn when you freed me from imprisonment, didn't I?" the knight drew twin shotels from his hip and raced forwards to meet him.

The masked undead roared behind his mask and spun when the knight was four feet away, whipping the pronged head around in a wide arc, its enchantment glowing faintly. Lautrec wasn't phased and lifted both shotels as the spear reached him. Argon grunted when his attack forced his weapon to rebound off the knight's pauldron and cause his arm to wobble.

He had put too much force into that swing in his rage. That was a rookie mistake.

The yellow knight shoved Argon's spear aside and dived for his knees, slashing deep lines just above his hips that quickly coloured crimson before rolling to his feet a metre behind him. When he saw the undead gasp and double over, he took the initiative and delivered a solid round-house kick to Argon's back. He sniggered throatily as the undeads mask kissed the ground below.

"Seems you've gotten slow while I was away." his companions shared a laugh as they all approached, still a good few feet away. One of the sorcerers, the one in plain robes lowered his staff and cancelled his magic from firing. Argon supposed it was due to Lautrec being in the way but scoffed at the idea. He probably thought Argon was weak, not worth expending a spell-cast. He was going to regret that decision, they all were.

Argon slowly rose to his feet, his blackened form cascading with inky waves of black as he did so. It was odd, that attack from the knight had hurt and bled just like any other attack would, so why had the pain disappeared almost immediately? Why wasn't his body heavier? He knew Lautrec was no fool, normally an attack like that would have made him bleed faster than Blighttown could poison you. He had cut him there on purpose, yet Argon could still move as if nothing were wrong? He didn't question it as he picked up his spear, turning to face the murdering lunatic with more rage building.

"I say, why _are_ you here anyway? I thought I left that maimed woman's soul behind, as disappointing as it was?" Lautrec questioned him before chuckling darkly. His companions were almost upon them now. A few more seconds and Argon would be outnumbered again, not that it bothered him much.

He growled and stepped forward. Lautrec spun on his heel and outstretched his arms, aiming to shred his opponent to ribbons with those deceptively sharp blades of his. The undead raised the shaft of his spear and blocked both strikes before using the back end to knock the knight back as the glowing spearman entered the fray.

He rose his wall shield, deflecting Argon's jab and scored a nick against the undeads shoulder. Argon grunted and jumped back, flexing the muscles in his thighs before rushing forward and swiping at the shield with the haft. He earned another cut against his left knee as a reward for his efforts. Then it was the sorcerer's turn. A spark of blue caught the undeads eye before he saw a soul spear fly towards his mask. He dived backward into a quick roll as the soul energy zipped passed him but didn't account for the next one that curved around the spearman and knocked him flat onto his back, a few more feet away from the object of his rage.

He panted loudly as he saw his form flicker and make parts of his body transparent. His effigy had been sufficiently damaged by the few attacks he had allowed to enter his personal bubble. A foolish mistake due to a mind clouded by revenge. He stood up again as Lautrec rushed forward again. Argon when to do the same when logic struck him. They were toying with him. Taking turns to score damage, chip away his health and send his on his way. Lautrec was acting smug, more than usual as well. His companions knew this invasion would end with the knight as the winner and him the loser, it was why that sorcerer hadn't used his strongest spell in the beginning of the fight. The undeads eyes widened beneath his mask.

The knight knew he would come seeking revenge. Why else would that red-eye orb be lying with Anastasia's clothing? Surely the young woman wasn't an invader of worlds with those broken legs of hers? Of course not, it was the doing of this murderer. He _knew_ how much Argon had cared for the Firekeeper behind bars, used her death to activate his rage and force him to invade. He had known that Argon was bound to make it to Anor Londo, and now he was using his rage to best him, tear him apart piece by piece.

_How clever…_

As the yellow knight leapt into the air with his arms drawn back to end the undead, the spear in his hands vanished and he jumped back, drawing his sword as Lautrec landed, shotels striking nothing. The knight raised his helm towards him and scoffed, lowering his arms as the spearman came back for round two.

He would need to keep a level head if he was going to win. Before crushing the red orb, he had come here solely for his hatred and revenge. Now, after clearing his head momentarily and focussing, a second reason entered his mind. He deflected a thrust aimed for his chest and shoved the spearman back to get a glance of Lautrec.

Anastasia.

Her soul hadn't been taken from her as he would have hoped, the fluffy ball of white was still in his storage pocket as proof. Lautrec had even said so himself, but that wasn't what worried him. It was true that by using the soul he could revive the Keeper without worry, however, a soul alone didn't make a person whole or even alive for that matter. A puppet needed more than organs and a soul to become a living entity, it needed the ability to think, experience and remember its past deeds to evolve.

It needed _memories_ to grow.

It had been brief but had been enough for the Chosen Undead to understand why he needed to go after the ungrateful knight in the first place. While his rage and need for revenge had been some of the reasons, the main one was the fact that he couldn't hear of see Anastasia from inside her own soul. He knew there were probably thousands of others flitting around in that soft ball of tentacles but at least he had a proper _face_ to search for within the object. Yet when he looked, he couldn't even _hear_ her voice within it. He saw her life trapped within the soul, of course, but she hadn't uttered a word unlike the other voices around her or even make a move to try and call out for help. It wasn't because she was speechless or that she didn't feel like crying, no. It was simply because she was more like an empty shell within her very own soul. She was like a puppet cut off all strings, _void_ of everything.

Argon watched the spearman ready his shield and he gave it an almighty boot, sending the man stumbling. From the shock on his face, it seemed he hadn't expected him to have that much raw strength in his lithe body, what a pity. The masked undead advanced on the man. A spear was raised in a last-ditch effort to impale him, but Argon slapped it away before driving his blade deep into the brown leather of his opponent. The spearman gasped loudly as the hilt of Argon's Silver Knight Sword touched his chest and his companions stood shocked, Lautrec excluded.

That was right, he had made that promise at Anastasia's grave so that he could retrieve her memories. He wouldn't leave her to be a sad husk like the many other hollows he had killed – not that she would have gone hollow in the first place with her being a Firekeeper and all. He calmed his mind and racing heart down as he felt the black veins on his face stretch down his shoulder. He wouldn't allow his rage to get the best of him, not when he was so close to that armoured bastard now.

The sorcerer in red raised his beak-shaped mask to him and Argon had to wonder if plague-masks were still in fashion as the foe fired another soul arrow at him. The undead smirked and jerked his blade. The dying spearman gave a shout as his body was forced to take a step to the side before a burst of azure flame blasted his spine, filling his mind white with pain before he burst into souls.

The crimson sorcerer audibly gasped in shock, taking a step back as the weight of his actions hit him. Argon took this moment to draw his own miniature staff and prepare a spell. Lautrec noticed and began to run forward, intent on stopping him from casting any lethal magic – he was the only person in the room that knew how devastating he could be when it came to magic anyways. Again, Argon smiled to himself as the incantation had been spoken. It was too late.

The yellow knight was about to hurl a throwing knife at him to stop whatever ranged attack he was going to use when he noticed the undeads sword change from a glittering silver to a hellfire of blue. He stopped running. Lautrec turned back to his companions and prepared to make a run for it before Argon closed in. It was smart but also badly planned, he didn't realize that he was _already_ too close for comfort.

The Chosen Undead ran forward and shoulder-bashed his next foe – he knew he had been doing that a lot lately, but he agreed it was pretty fun – and slashed downwards as Lautrec tumbled. A loud hiss from the knight sounded as Argon's blade tore across the knight's back with a _shlink_. Lautrec fell to the floor with a great clattering, breaking the sorcerers from their shock. He managed to scramble to his feet and roll forward before the same glowing blade severed his head from his shoulders. As he did so Argon looked up and saw the regular sorcerer casting another soul arrow. The Chosen Undead made a break for it, running up the dark stairway on his left.

He heard the spell before he saw it and rolled forward on the stairs, sighing in relief when the ball of azure flame missed him. He climbed more steps as his foes regrouped and ran for him. With a few deep breaths and a quick lift of his mask to drink from his Estus flask, the undead climbed the stairs and turned to the corridor it led to only to see it blocked by white fog. He groaned and turned towards the stained glass windows a fair distance away.

_Of course I can't run into other rooms during an invasion… damn you luck._

With a quick wave of his catalyst, six large balls of soul energy came to life around his body and he stopped by the bend of the oval-shaped second floor. This was far enough, he mentally agreed as he drew his Dragonslayer Bow and planted it into the shadowed ground before resting his blade on the ground. With a loud grunt he knocked a hexagonal arrow against the curved side and yanked back the drawstring. When his chosen target's head appeared in his sight, he let the arrow fly.

He smiled in satisfaction as a face _squelched _and a body burst into white but cursed when he saw the crimson sorcerer and yellow knight run at him. Lautrec was a clever strategist and excellent in both battle and manipulation, Argon could give him that. However, he was like a mindless hollow in comparison to Argon's skill and talent. The bow in the undeads hands dissipated and he picked up his blade before retreating. Lautrec and his beak-masked companion – who Argon decided to dub as 'Birdman' because why the hell not – followed him around the bend of the floor they were on when six balls of soul energy flashed into their faces.

Birdman ducked and rolled but was hit by three of the balls that blasted him off his feet and against a round pillar of shadow, whilst Lautrec simply shook off the pain and swiped at Argon the first chance he got. The undead raised an eyebrow at how the man could bleed from more than a few strong hits and still fight unhindered and kicked, watching as the yellow knight backstepped and lunged. His shotel landed a clean cut through Argon's shoulder and the undead returned the favour with a slash to the chest. Lautrec uttered a loud gasp and stumbled backwards as a torrent of blood poured from the magic-enchanted strike.

Argon grinned as he fell to one knee, gripping his wounded chest. The undead knew what a strike from an enchanted blade felt like, he had been on the receiving end from it on multiple occasions by the various other invaders that had tried to claim his soul or steal his humanity. The burn it left was like living acid, coursing up your body as if it wanted you to suffer intensively as the pain reached for your limbs, your organs, your head… it was so potent it even had the potential to sever your own _soul _in two.

"Not so cocky now, are you?"

Lautrec only growled in reply, dropping his weapons to stem the bleeding. Argon turned his head towards the remaining comrade that managed to recover from the blast he had dealt and readied his sword. Birdman groaned and looked up at Argon. if he were glaring at him he couldn't tell because the next thing he knew, he was being aimed at with a catalyst that looked more like a metal rod with the ends sharpened to a point. He rushed him immediately.

Birdman faltered, not used to close combat and tried to impale the undead, but Argon pivoted on his heel and severed the man's outstretched arm, his blade running though the appendage like a knife through butter. Birdman fell to his knees and roared in pain before his head was cleaved off, the beak-mask bouncing against the floor with wet thuds. Argon turned back to Lautrec as the enchantment on the blade wore off and he flicked it of blood as the yellow knight stood.

He briefly remembered his words to Priscilla about being a grim-reaper and chuckled. He would see her soon enough.

"While some… might call me a mur-_Gwyn_ that hurts!" Lautrec began, grunting as more blood flowed freely from his chest. It seemed Argon had cut him deeper than he originally thought. "While I'm labelled as a murderer, and for good measure, I-_ooh_\- have to say that _you_ must be the most… ugh! Violent undead alive, and I mean that whole-heartedly."

He gripped one of his curved blades whilst his other hand reached behind him. Argon tightened the grip on his blade and took a step forward.

"Ah, easy now," he said and chuckled, quickly putting his hand in the air. "just reaching for something to cover this wound." He started to chuckle darkly again until Argon took another step forward.

"Okay, okay… I get the message." He grumbled, still gasping between words.

"Why did you kill her?" he had to know. Whether it was him or his rage speaking, whether the man would give the information freely or he had to sever his limbs first, he just… had to know.

Anastasia had been an innocent person, one of very, _very_ few in Lordran. While her status as a Keeper made it impossible for her to ever leave, and people adventuring only saw her as a means to keep them alive, she was still a person. Not a thing. Not a tool. Not an object. To Argon, she had been a sanctuary, something to keep his thoughts calm whenever another death sent him back to the genesis that was Firelink. He had spent many hours just sitting and talking to her. It didn't bother him that she was unable to reply or that she seemed more wary than friendly whenever he dropped by at first. What had mattered to him was the fact that she agreed to listen to him.

He had even asked to be certain. He knew he could come across as loud, overly chatty, tactless or even unintentionally rude when speaking, it had happened many times when talking with Cresty, and he had learned his lesson not to joke with the undead merchant about whoever this 'Yulia' woman was. Even his recent travels with Priscilla had taught him that he hadn't learned much about decent conversation. He knew he was a mess on the inside, and after Oolacile, he agreed nothing would ever be the same again.

However, Anastasia had been different. Despite his grand flaws, she had been the first to warm up to him before even Laurentius came into his circle. She had been the one to silently motivate him, give him that genuine smile of hers that made his body flush with warmth. She had trusted him when he said he would do his best to help her even though he didn't have a plan in the slightest.

To see that she, a Keeper of pure innocence- no, a _woman_ had suffered such a terrifying fate just because her blasphemous country deemed it so… it made the edges of his sanity warp, writhe like a serpent on fire. And this… this _man_ had just simply killed her as if it were the most average thing in the world. What for? He didn't know, but he _would_ find out before his time was up in this shadowy world. He would allow his shackled wrath to take over just this once, if only to sate his urgency for revenge.

"Who?" the knight asked and readjusted his grip on the curved sickle. "I kill a _lot_ of people."

"Why did you _kill_ her?" Argon asked for forcefully this time, punctuation his words with a loud stomp forward.

"Oh, you mean the wench." He chuckled when Argon growled. He _was_ going to kill this man, the same way that he _was_ going to receive an explanation. Enough was enough.

"Well, you see… it was necessary."

"**HOW?!**" he roared and began advancing forward.

"I was short of a few sprites and besides, it was more of a mercy to her than living."

The Chosen Undead stopped. He was right. How could he have been such a fool? Anastasia was a Firekeeper, after all. No matter how much he could have done to help, she would have still suffered. Look at Quelaan, her pain had been doubled due to the many that had perished in Blighttown and Izalith alone, never mind all the undead that had come and died millennia ago. He should have understood better, tried to sympathize with someone going through worse than his stupid mission of suicide. It was worse for her because she had never even _chosen_ to leave her home. Maybe he _should_ let her rest? She had been through so much, suffered a thousand-fold. What mercy was it to revive her when she would be healed physically but forced to suffer the same terrors over and over again?

_Even so… that doesn't justify murdering her._

Not seeking retribution would have been an insult to her memory. Her memory… they were trapped, weren't they? No, was it taken by someone? Yes… yes, taken, stolen! But by who? Who had stolen them again?

Argon blinked and stared at a wounded Lautrec. His mind began to swim in the dark waters he knew he shouldn't go to, but for what little damn he gave right now, he allowed the iron bolt on that rusted door to remain unlocked. And then, as if a switch had been flicked, Argon looked back up at the yellow knight and grinned madly behind his mask. The imaginary door in his mind swung open with a terrifying creak.

"You knew I'd come running when I realized you killed Ana."

"Figured it out, did you?" the knight spat before plunging his hand behind him and haling out his Estus flask. The man already knew he was being probed for whatever knowledge he possessed, including his motives. Argon supposed he was just using every opportunity he had before their… third round? He couldn't remember but he _did_ know the knight wouldn't be sane again after he was done with him.

"You purposefully left her soul behind but sucked out her memories so I'd have a reason to find you, in case my anger wasn't enough to spur me on. You even left a shard of your armour behind as path marker for me to blindly follow."

"It's better to plan for possibility than certainty." The knight lifted the flask to his helm and poured the liquid flame through the gaps in his visor. Almost instantly, Argon saw the wounds he had dealt close and heard him sigh in relief.

"So, why did you want me?"

"Ahh, much better…" Lautrec said, replacing his flask. "you cart around humanity like souls, a trove of riches for the taking."

Ah, so that was it. Greed. While he could understand that kind of thinking… he was still sickened to his core. Although… he should have expected it, he had a bad habit of crushing spare humanity whenever boredom arose.

"I'm going to take back Anastasia's memories. You won't stop me."

"Oh, I have no doubt about that, however, I'd like to play a little game."

"A game?"

"Yes… something to stir the pot."

"For lack of what little damn I give, tell me what you have in mind."

"How about a wager?" the knight asked, and Argon raised an amused eyebrow before nodding in agreement. It didn't matter what he tried to do to delay the inevitable, this was the end of the line.

"If you can manage to disarm me and gain the memories of that woman from this hand…" Lautrec stuck a hand into his pouch and withdrew a round ball, no bigger than a marble. The centre swirled with a murky white and red that chased each other around the small orb. Argon focussed on it and felt the warm, comforting set of emotions he felt when grasping Anastasia's soul. Good. It was the real thing.

"I will surrend-"

A throwing knife stopped Lautrec's explanation as it grazed his arm and drew blood, breaking his focus momentarily. Argon dashed forward at the yellow knight and brought his blade up to slash against Lautrec's middle. The knight stiffened at the suddenness of the assault and prepared to do the same. As Argon neared he saw the curved sickle approach his right hand, he smiled. Why did everyone expect him to only use his hands?

He stopped a metre short and twisted, lifted his left leg and swung it. Lautrec made a surprised sound in this throat as the boot to his closed hand broke his knuckles and made him drop his weapon. When Argon's foot touched the ground again, he swung his sword to spill Lautrec's guts, but the knight quickly jumped back. He raised his right hand holding the marble into the air as Argon tried to grab it before attempting to smash a broken fist into his masked face. The Chosen Undead dodged the strike and dragged his blade across the broken hand, making Lautrec yell in pain. The knight moved to run for the stairway, but Argon bashed his shoulder into him, spun and swung his blade upwards. The yellow knight of Carim roared as the Silver Knight's blade sheered through his unguarded wrist.

They watched the gloved appendage fall in slow motion before Argon returned the round-house kick he had received earlier and sent the knight tumbling onto the ground, clutching the bleeding stump that remained on his arm. Lautrec uttered a loud scream at the new pain that flared into his recently healed system. The hand fell to the floor with a wet _smack_ and Argon walked up to it, momentarily forgetting about the source of his rage. Carefully, he opened each finger until the small orb was visible, gently cradled within the palm and picked it up with his thumb and index.

It felt as light as a marble as he stared at it, admiring the way the two opposing colours swirled back and forth between each other. It was surreal, entrancing… peaceful. Then he realized that these where the memories of an actual living being, and that wonder was purged, replaced by his unholy anger and resentment.

"What was it you were saying if I won?" he asked, pocketing the orb and walking slowly towards the weeping knight. His boots echoed around the room with each step he took, and for a moment he wondered if they had sounded like that this whole time. Had the thought of revenge clouded his awareness that much?

"Y-You…" Lautrec whimpered out weakly. Argon smiled again. It was finally nice to see this cocky fool act like the pathetic sinner he was. Wait, sinner? What was he talking about? He wasn't some kind of god to judge others, so what the hell was he calling the man a sinner for? He was probably the worst of the lot himself in that regard, right? Eh, that didn't matter; what did was that no matter what the knight had done, it was for survival… he hoped.

"Bastard."

"Now, now, don't insult yourself. I'm not a mirror to reflect assholes whenever I see them." His grin merely widened when he heard the yellow knight growl at him. This was just golden – pardon the pun – for his tired eyes to witness, he was going to experience dinner and a show as he claimed his long-awaited revenge. Oh, how he enjoyed poetic justice. Unless… what he was talking about wasn't poetic justice at all. Was it just plain old revenge served cold? Perhaps it had a dash of sweetness to it to amplify the flavour? He couldn't care less, however, it was finally time to let his wild thoughts rampage. With uncharacteristic glees, Argon imaged that iron door being opened wider and wider until the hinges threatened to snap.

This was going to be fun, he thought, as he removed his torn Izalith robe to reveal the pale, scarred flesh beneath.

"Un… wanted."

"Huh? What was that?"

"Unnecessary."

"Could you speak up please. I know I just chopped your hand off, but you could act like less of a child about it, 'ya know…"

"You… you aren't worthy of her love."

Argon frowned as he watched the knight stand up. He didn't make a move to drink from his Estus and it was only until the man bent over to retrieve his blade that Argon realized the flask was an emerald green. Empty of the flames from the bonfire. He had used them all to heal his previous injuries.

Blood poured unceremoniously from the red stump on Lautrec's arm as he breathed heavily, readying himself to do something rash. Argon stayed on guard and tightened his grip on his sword, this was far from over.

"You don't deserve to be loved by her." He rasped out in anger, lifting his helm and staring at Argon like a madman ready to pounce.

What the hell was the matter with this guy? He murdered an innocent Firekeeper so that he could draw him into some elaborate trap and steal all his humanity, and now that the odds weren't in his favour the man was acting like the maniacs in the Asylum? Perhaps the word 'Embraced' was the correct word to describe the yellow knight, Argon mused and tensed as the madman began to run at him.

If he were the goddess Fina, he would also feel sad for a pathetic psychopath that served him. What use was all that strategizing when the man was an obnoxious child mentally?

The Chosen Undead grunted as Lautrec collided with him. For a moment he even wondered whether killing this basket case was even worth it given his mind was a rotten vegetable. Although, whilst the knight was certainly mental, his skills and strength weren't something to laugh at. They both jumped back before clashing blades again, steel grinding against steel and sparks flew like miniature bolts of lightning as both undead fought for dominance.

Argon could still hear the man muttering unintelligibly to himself about 'her love' and 'not worthy' but chose to focus on the shotel inching closer and closer to the eyehole in his mask. The muttering grew louder, and Lautrec breathed rapidly as if he were excited to win this tug of war. Argon smiled behind his mask as the end of the sickle touched the white porcelain. Did this oaf honestly think it would be that easy?

Slowly, as if to keep the suspense, Argon began to push back. The blade that was a few inches from making his right-side blind moved away and approached Lautrec. The knight made a surprised sound and growled at him as he was overpowered. Argon could give the man props for trying at least, with one arm he was still a beast.

"You don't deserve it. You're not worthy, not pure. I'll kill you, I'll k- AGH!" Argon smashed his fist into Lautrec's helm and watched him stumble. He knew he must have broken a few bones but didn't voice his pain.

"Enough." The undead said as the knight got his bearings and began to growl at him again. Was this guy rabid or something? If so, he would need to keep him at a distance before this firecracker decided to take a bite out of him. Why was it always the crazy ones that kept screwing his miserable life up?

"Fina is _mine._" He rasped.

"Good, keep her." Argon replied and double-handed his blade. He wouldn't remain in this world long if this kept up and that agonising headache was beginning to return.

"Lets just hurry up and end this, Lautrec. I've got places to be, Lord's to kill and a cross breed to tease."

"Keh heh heh…"

"The hell's funny now?" He really wished he had stayed in the main hall.

"Even though you have an inkling of what's going on, they're still playing you for the fool you are."

Argon frowned. Was he referring to Frampt and Gwyndolin? Impossible, how could he even know their masterplan for an invader from another realm? "What are you talking about?"

Lautrec chuckled again. It was starting to piss him off. "Do you know what being the Chosen Undead means _Argon_?" he didn't like the way he said his name either. He agreed, the name Argon was an odd name, nobody named their kids that. Even so, not everybody had the right to haphazardly utter it on their wicked tongue's, especially not _this_ fruitcake.

"It means I have to take Gwyn's seat, and somehow preserve the First Flame, however that works… why?" he decided to play along as a last gift to the murderer. He _was_ going to die by his blade in a few moments. "Did someone tell you about it? I don't suppose the Flame requires firewood, does it? If so, do I need to fan it or something?"

"For all your intelligence, you're still a fool."

"Keep talking. I'll know how shallow to make your grave when this is over."

"Then I'll see you in hell when you link that Flame… or don't."

"What are yo-"

"But that doesn't matter now," Lautrec interrupted and prepared to charge. "You'll be snuffed out soon enough, unwanted trash."

Argon stiffened at his words as recognition grazed the edge of his memory. "What did you just say?" he asked softly as if his voice was unsure of itself. The knight chuckled darkly and for the first time, the undeads curiosity didn't feel like venturing into such unchartered waters.

And then Lautrec began to speak.

"You are vile, dirty, unwanted. Unclean, end him… end him now," the undeads head began to split from the intense pain pooling at the centre of his brain as the yellow knight approached, uttering those words that froze his limbs on the spot. He tried to react, to attack but his legs were locked in fear as an unholy rage from deep within began to stir. He knew that rage, that anger, that unhidden wrath than wanted to peel his skin off and devour everything. He had felt it before crushing that orb and experienced that dream that only cracked the flimsy wall his psyche had put up.

"Snuff out the unclean… snuff out the unwanted! End them, end them all!"

Argon shouted as the pain grew fiercer and the buzzing in his head got louder before Lautrec cackled and spoke again, his blade poised above his head as the Chosen Undead dropped to his knees.

"Now, be purged like the filth you are… you pathetic _atrocity_."

And then, as if all the emotions he had felt since arriving in Lordran came together into a single wave of despair, the dam in Argon's mind burst and everything went red again.

* * *

**_(Year 996, The Age of Fire.)_ **

_"How is the boy taking to your visits, my Lord?" asked a hunched servant as his master dropped into an ornate tub filled with steaming water and rose petals. The servant watched as the water rapidly rose at the new addition of weight before fountains worth overflowed onto the floor. His master simply sighed and leaned forward as the hunched servant began to lather his broad shoulders, bony fingers running over muscles shoulder-blades._

_"What's that, Covance, are you displaying actual **worry**?"_

_"Not at all," the hunchback replied and placed a tall glass of wine to the man's awaiting hands. "the change of noise at regular intervals have just been… growing since my Lord has begun his experiment."_

_"**Reconditioning** Covance." The master corrected and drank deeply from his glass. Besides his obvious misconceptions, his servant was correct, the noise in their small town had been increasing after he had decided to train another one. The villagers were also complaining about the disturbance of the peace due to 'poorly concealed crying'. He couldn't fault the boy in that dingy cellar for having an exceptional set of lungs on him, neither could he find a reason to fault him for the noise. As it stood, the boy hadn't seen the light of day for nearly two Summers, how could he have known people could hear him wail in agony? Even so, he had caused his good citizens to be suspicious of their loving ruler. That would not do._

_"He shows far too much resilience, I'm afraid. I train and train him but just when I think he's ready he goes and disappoints me and we start from zero again."_

_"It must weigh heavily on my Lord's shoulders to receive such an unworthy candidate." Covance stated as he poured more water on his master to wash away the dirty soap suds. With a trained hand, he combed back the man's hair and pinned it to the back of his neck. The master took a moment to carefully pat his chin-length hair before rising from the tub and spilling more water onto the floor._

_The hunched servant admired the large, muscular form of his Lord; toned legs, wash-board abdomen and the thickest set of arms he had ever laid eyes upon. His skin shone like orange leather in the afternoon sunlight and the smile that never left his face stood out like etched symbols on a wooden surface._

_Covance drew a bath-towel from a nearby table and began to dry his master's chiselled form vigorously as he spoke. "Perhaps he is not the right one for the position my Lord has so graciously chosen him for?" The master chuckled as his glass left his lips and he raised his arms. Covance dutifully began to wipe away the droplets of water remaining on his wet skin._

_"He may be difficult to cultivate Covance, but he **is** worthy," he left his servants side and pulled on a heavy robe with white fur trimming over his impressive shoulders. "he's already passed my test months ago."_

_"If so, then why hasn't my Liege placed him in armour? This has been the first of thousands to keep my Lord more than a fortnight of initiation."_

_The master smirked wider and stood before the large window before them. "Indeed, he is Covance. Yet, despite absorbing my teachings as desperately as a Dragon Scholar, he still resists the collar I place on him. When my back is turned, he shreds his own skin to tear the fabric away and sprints off into the deep midnight. Even so, when it comes time to locate him, I am both surprised and disappointed to find him rested behind the very door he escaped from lost in the maze of his dreams."_

_"Is it truly wise to remain steadfast in this endeavour then, Lord Stein?"_

_"Oh yes. He will bring me **abundant **satisfaction… why else would he choose to consume the old baker rather than his **pastries** after escaping this eve?"_

_"My Liege?" Covance was confused by the master's words. The boy was still locked up in the cellar, he had seen to it himself. And what did the master mean by 'consume the old baker'? Then suddenly, a loud knock sounded at the door gaining both men's attention before it was violently thrown open and a dirty child with pale skin and open wounds was unceremoniously thrown at his Lord's feet. Covance's eyes widened considerably as the panting city guard walking in, a hand holding his bleeding shoulder as scratch marks adorned his sweating face._

_"Forgive me for my intrusion, Lord Stein but your subject was found escaping his confinement." Covance gaped at the master as the boy remained plastered to the floor, as if an invisible weight were somehow pressing against his back after entering the master's bathing chamber._

_"Has he now?" the master asked in mild amusement and he began to grin maliciously when the boy on his hands and knees began to tremble at his voice. "Pray tell, what happened to you, soldier?"_

_The guard did his best to stand upright and salute. "Sir! The subject reacted violently to recapture after he was found to be…" the guard hesitated for a moment._

_"Go on." Said the master._

_"He was found to be eating the old baker… alive, Sire."_

_"How many of you tried to stop him?"_

_"Four, my Lord."_

_"And how many suffered the same fate as old man Rolf?"_

_"Th… Three my Lord. I was the only survivor."_

_At this, Covance audibly gasped and backed away, nearing slipping on the water on the floor from earlier. This boy, this bleeding, trembling child that lay prostrate before the master had escaped the cellar he had personally locked, eaten baker Rolf alive and murdered not one but **three** city guards before finally being apprehended. The hunched servant would never be a fool to question his Lord's sagely wisdom for a second – he had predicted the boy's movements flawlessly after all – but the fact that he was training this monster to join a league only made Covance stare wide-eyed at the master. Was Lord Stein truly going to allow **this** feral imp the sacred right to become his Lord's unseen hand?_

_"I see," the master's voice broke Covance from his trance and he watched in shock as his Lord crouched down to pat the trembling child on the head. The servant was about to call for him to stop, fear gripping his heart that his Lord might suffer the same fate as Rolf and the others when the child just stiffened and slumped to the ground. The guard shared an equal look of outrage before calming himself as the boy began to sob loudly, his bony frame shaking with each loud intake of breath. "as expected, I suppose… Covance."_

_"Y-Yes, my Liege!" the hunched servant stood to attention, wrinkled eyes wide._

_"See that the boy's wounds are tended to and he bathes tonight." The master lifted his intimidating gaze to the wounded guard. "Clean up the bakery and placate anyone who overheard the struggle."_

_"Yes, Sire!" both men screamed in unison and the guard departed as quickly as his injured body could allow him. Covance, meanwhile, began to reach out for the boy to escort him to the servants' bathhouse when a muscled hand stopped him. He looked down to see the master smiling at him with that calculating look in his eye._

_"Clean him up here. I don't want anyone **seeing** him in the castle Covance."_

_The servant nodded firmly and cautiously took the child's dirty hand, flinching when he jerked in his grip. He assumed the boy would have tried to take a bit out of him as well but was surprised when he did nothing more than blindly follow Covance's directions, not even indicating his pain when the hunchback dabbed a cleaning agent on his torn skin._

_"When dawn breaks, wake him up and feed him," the master stated and walked towards the opened door. The boy lifted his head towards the retreating footsteps before whispering something that only Lord Stein seemed to hear before he turned and offered a bone-chilling smile. "he will begin training as a **Lithecore** immediately."_

_The boy began to tremble again at the master's voice and Covance watched as the boy's bloodshot amber eyes widened in terror, his malnourished chest rising and falling rapidly as he stared at Lord Stein._

_"You'll make a fine **addition** to the league, now won't you, you vicious **atrocity**?"_

* * *

**How many of you caught the Phantom of the Opera reference as well as the Black Butler one? I couldn't resist throwing it in there.**

**Now, I might mess up parts of this whole Argon background thing and will most likely revise certain aspects of it. The flashbacks are the reason I haven't updated within a week as per the trend that the past four chapters I've previously written have.**

**The only thing I have to say for now is stay safe while at home, don't binge on the junk food and please read your pm's if I've sent you any (otherwise all the thanks and praise I wrote into them will go to the inanimate site, and who wants that?).**

**Oyasumi.**


	15. Chapter 15

**YOU READY?! Are you exited? Ikou- woah – oh – oh – ouch! (*rubs head)**

**-_nobody wants to hear you ruin the opening song of My Hero Academia's third season._ **

**Well then, what else do you want me to do? I'm still raving over how the site can do this to me.**

**_-you mean how you've sent over four lengthy essays to each your favourite authors-_ **

**OUR favourite authors!**

**-_only to realize the pm-system doesn't work and literally no one has gotten a message from you._ **

**All that time spent praising and applauding people via text gone down the drain…**

**_-look on the bright side, at least you won't be seen as a fanboy by them since they haven't received your messages. Not that I care but this reduces the chances of you potentially freaking out the people you admire._ **

**That does make sense when you put it- Hey! I do not act like a fanbo- ouch! Stop hitting me!**

**-_then begin 'ze story' already, our readers are waiting._ **

**You used my catchphrase… I feel so proud. (*sparkly anime-eyes)**

**-_you want another fist to the gut?_ **

**Nope. On with ze story!**

* * *

_The starry sky glimmered like white dots amongst an inky black mass as Lord Stein stood before his army. He wore an open crimson robe that covered most of his muscular build and bulky trousers that hid the powerful limbs beneath, capable of robbing a man of his life should he decided to wrap them around the poor fool's neck. The simple silver circle that represented his crown sat comfortably above his brow as the cool breeze played with a stray lock of hair._

_A satisfied grin adorned his tanned features and he flexed his hands in anticipation. How could he not when witnessing the spectacle in front of him? Men of all shapes and sizes, colours and regions stood breathlessly at attention, their blood staining their clothes awaiting his royal decree, tired gasps filling the atmosphere with sound as more and more struggled to plant their locomotive limbs firmly against the sandy floor._

_Two-thousand. That had been the original number they had all amounted to. Two-thousand men taken, reconditioned, trained, toyed with, spat on and carved into the weapons they were today. **His** weapons, his toys, his worker ants. They had all sat in the same chair, been told the same words, felt the same process of pain and pleasure, forced to endure the same hardships all from the same set of hands… **his**. Two-thousand had been created, and now only a tenth remained._

_It wasn't that great a loss to the sadistic ruler, he still had the capability to create more, after all. He would dirty his hands time and time again, from one pitiful soul to the next if it meant forming his obedient army from scratch again. Lord Stein was a patient man, a visionary in the midst of other inventors, an instructor of a sect neither seen or unseen. His devotion never wavered from his cause for the simple reason that he was too optimistic to entertain the ploys of doubt._

_He took a few more moments to stare at the fruits of his labour – and what delectable fruits they **were**. A cluster, a group, a murder, a coven of his most devoted underlings; more loyal that the Knight's of Gwyn even… they were all assembled here before him under one dusky banner of dusty decadence. They had come to him as young boy's once… crying and terrified to be in a land far from their mother's embrace, their father's presence. They had all once whimpered at the sight of his might, his **kind** smile like bleating little lambs being led to the slaughterhouse._

_How quickly they had been reformed._

_It hadn't taken much to fix the filth inside of them either. A bit of isolation, a torrent of screaming and gnashing of teeth – and let's not forget the mental torture he loved so, so much. From heretical pups they had been moulded into wolves, their fleshy containers long forgotten with the nights they spent being shaped by his large hands. Now they stood tall, blameless, silent, **obedient** to his every beck and call. Obedient enough that they all marched to their own destruction at the extension of his righteous finger._

_Well, almost all of them._

_Yes, that's right, the reason his unflinching pack had been assembled was for but one solitary brother… the newest addition to the League._

_Lord Stein's smile grew wider as he locked eyes with a set of amber pools that belonged to a young, pale and handsome subordinate of his. He had usually only needed a few eve's and a good splash of warm water to create a minion capable of turning a town into an old ruin. This boy had taken **years** of tutelage, however. Stein's eyes roamed the thin body of the body at his feet dressed in stained rags for clothing, a mop of black serving to hide most of his pale face from view._

_"Do you know why you are all here?" Stein asked to no one in particular._

_"**CALL TO ORDER, SIR!**" his army announced in a chorus of voices._

_"Good, and do you know why **he** is here?" he pointed to the boy staring up at him impassively._

_"**INITIATION, SIR!"** _

_"Exactly," Stein said, walking into the open space before him, "and how it is that we initiate one of our brethren, our fellow misfit, our new **hound**?"_

_"**BATTLE!**"_

_The dry stretch of land Stein stood in echoed with the might of a million desperate souls despite the lack of. He scoffed and turned his head to face the young boy in rags. With a satisfied nod, the boy stood up and levelled a monotone gaze at the larger man, his hair billowing in the cool wind like a burnt, torn curtain. Their gazes connected once more, and Stein and his men watched the boy take off the shredded covering that was once a tunic. The men in armour were allowed to turn their gazes towards their master and the new recruit; and took note of the maze of old and new scars decorating the young boy's torso like carvings. He drew a worn blade and approached Lord Stein._

_This was how he had taught his flock to communicate, to mingle with one another as they followed his orders and purged the guilty he sought to cleanse from this wretched world of false god's and blasphemous miracles. A battle to prove your worth as a member of the League, a method to test one's limits against a more than stronger adversary, it was a way to promote the aspect of life; for how did one know what it was like to live if they didn't understand what it was like to potentially die?_

_These men in armour around him had all gone through the same hurdle. They had all stood before him like the boy with the blank face and glowing eyes did right now. All of them had come out of that cellar a weapon of devastation, sneering at him with the hatred, pain, fear and hesitancy they had marinated in whilst under reconditioning. And one by one, they had all engaged him in this sacred right, this Dance of the Camelia. He had trained all of them, made them tolerant to pain, ignorant to death and unfazed by the odds stacked against their favour. As such it was only fair that he be the one to effectively gauge their progress in the one chance they had to exact their revenge._

_Just like the one in front of him._

_In truth, he had secretly been anticipating this moment with the boy from the first day Covance had announced that he had escaped. It had intrigued his twisted mind – something he was most proud to possess – and tugged the reigns of his attention towards the amber-eyed lamb. Because what Lord Stein favoured more than devout obedience in his subjects was the ability of a single individual to make his methods and ideals seem obsolete and useless. He sought after a puppet that possessed a mind of its own despite being tethered to his meaty hands, a soldier that had what all others lacked; individuality._

_"Yes… **battle**." As Stein shrugged off his robe and folded it over a muscular arm, he watched the boy calmly, another sinister grin forming on his face when the boy began to run at him with that composed mask he maintained. How hilarious it was to see that the same boy rushing him with the intent to spill his entrails was once the personification of terrified at his almighty presence._

_But he had shown an over-abundance of promise, the boy had. Absorbing everything the sadistic ruler had ever said in between one method of torture to another, only to use it to his advantage and impress Stein repeatedly. Admittedly, that was one of the traits his army were required to have – and if they didn't it would be beaten into them as many times as he saw fit until it became second-nature to breathing. He had carved tribal sigils into the stuttering filth's body to prove he meant it._

_Stein watched the boy swing his blade towards his tanned hip before he carelessly tossed his robe up in the air. The thick material was blown toward his subordinate in a strong gust of wind, causing the boy's swing to come up short and spoil his attack. Stein waited until it obscured his foe's sight before lashing out with a strong boot. He watched the boy sail backwards and crash into the sand before heaving up the contents in his stomach. With a small shake of the head, the pathetic sow stood up and faced Lord Stein again._

_Durability was a thing the pale boy had possessed before his reconditioning; however, his determination was something the broad-shouldered master had nailed into him over time. He needed the boy to be stronger than the others, stubborn to change and resistant to his royal orders. It was the only way he would be able to commandeer Stein's army._

_His footmen, his arbiters… his **Lithecore's.** Stoic husks of young men primed to purge all the dirt from this slowly melting icicle people called home. Eternity never lasted, nothing was set in stone and even these so-called 'gods' were inept at depicting what the future held. War's were still being waged by protestant clerics proclaiming their devotion to a deity that refuted their existence, beings both intelligent or otherwise were being purged from this ancient land for simply exposing themselves; and the weak that used flame to warm their hungry skeletons were classed as heretics by all. This world Lord Stein had come to know was not an ideal one, not suited to fit the bill of the vision he had in mind. Why would it when the denizens of this world weren't seen as equals given the fact that they had all been birthed from the First Flame._

_What had made the Four Great Lords any different to the rats that prowled the sewers and worms that fed off the fallen? When had his people ever agreed the bless some cult the title of being a 'holy' city in the first place? Who ever decided what faith his small kingdom should follow? It certainly wasn't him, that was for sure._

_It was survival of the fittest, everyone had known it to be true but said nothing; opting to hide behind their mother's legs whilst the big bad mayors and monarchs swaggered around eying the masses like peons to their own putrid existence. Stein knew that the butterfly effect of a single stupid god's mistake would end up creating worldwide genocide soon, and small villages like his were easy targets when the going got tough. Soon people would be eating each other, kingdoms would fall, monsters would roam the land and peace that had taken eons to create would be shattered in a matter of pointless seconds._

_And so a simple countermeasure had formed in the Lord's head almost decades ago before the formation of a force so threatening the immortal beasts of old would have shuddered. The idea was simple, animalistic and inhumane; however, he was always of the mind that one needed to be inhumane to preserve humanity. He was doing it for the greater good anyway, who would blame him for ensuring the survival of a supposed 'weaker' race?_

**_If_ **_and **when** the time came to eliminate the lowest links in the food chain, he would implement a method to make those up above grovel to those down below. When these false prophets and repulsing religions took claim to a people that weren't theirs, he would ensure their sins wouldn't go unpunished. Pathetic weasels with unmarred hands had no place giving orders to the labourers, the pawns on the chessboard who gave their lives to prosper the land. By the movement of his Lithecore's, Stein would ensure the pecking order was shuffled, fixed, ripped to pieces by utilizing the one thing this rotten society sought to maintain their ruling; the current generation's youth._

_He walked up to a soldier in black and drew his sword from the scabbard at man's hip. He turned back to the boy and motioned for him to continue his assault._

_These blasphemous idolaters and vile creators of a non-existent faith would all burn in the fires of their worshiper's hate soon, the rage he had instilled in each warrior would see to that. For if powerful rulers sought to purge souls in an act to cover up their own inferiority, the only solution was to uncover the truth and begin what needed to be done **decades** ago._

_"Snuff out the unwanted," Stein said as the boy charged forward again. His blade clashed with Lord Stein's and he offered the scarred atrocity a grin as his men continued their main objective._

_"**SNUFF OUT THE UNNECESARY!**"_

_Stein's smile grew wider as the boy locked eyes with him and snarled, as if the words spoken had flipped a switch inside of him. A deep, dark switch; an urge for immediate bloodshed._

_The snarl turned into a mouth opening and the Lord felt electricity flow up his spine at the wild look in those amber eyes. Yes… **this** was exactly what was needed to survive a carnivorous world; an insatiable desire to devour all that opposed you, the rage of a true human being. How beautifully it released the soul trapped inside the dirty walls of flesh._

_"Snuff them all out."_

_The boy was **finally **ready._

* * *

"_AHHHHHH!_"

"Stop screaming."

**_SMACK!_ **

"S-Stop! I beg of y-_AH_!"

"I said stop screaming. Do you want me to stab the other testicle?" Lautrec replied with a weak whimper, his near hollowed face cringing as fear filled his sunken onyx eyes. Argon merely smiled.

"Good boy."

They had been engaging in this game of doctor for a while now, Argon would draw a throwing knife from his storage pocket and pin a part of the yellow Knight's body to the silhouetted and now bloody floor. Screams would erupt from the otherwise tank of a man's mouth before the Chosen Undead would reward him with a strong backhand to his already cut face.

He hadn't known what had happened between the moment he cut off the Knight's hand to the moment they were now a hundred metres on the ground floor of this alternate version of Anor Londo. The undead agreed that Lautrec's words had stirred something within him that had refocussed his already confused mind but he couldn't really place why he felt calm despite his overwhelming rage. It was almost as if someone had taken his raw anger and filtered it into his comedic side. The thought made him chuckled darkly and shove another knife into his foe's kneecap. As Lautrec screamed he couldn't help but smile wider, it was almost like music to his ears. Almost.

**_SMACK!_ **

"I said, shut up."

Whilst it odd that his shadowy effigy seemed not to be flickering anymore, he didn't question it and continued his slow process of revenge, preferring to think that luck was finally on his side for once.

He looked over the Knight below him with an amused grin before licking the side of his split mouth. Whilst a part of his mind agreed that making the ugly man a human pin-cushion was crass of his usual jolly nature, the barking thoughts of contradiction that told him the bastard deserved every nick and cut, overpowered that sense of rationalism. When he thought about it carefully, it was completely in his right to… _extract_ his revenge in whatever method he saw fit. It didn't matter how much the man with blades the shape of eyelashes had helped him along the way with information and battle, the sinner deserved to be punished for his crimes.

Argon had previously only sought after the yellow Knight for Anastasia's memories and revenge but when he really mulled it over, he knew the real reason was simply because the man was a sinner, another unnecessary soul that followed another fake god. Trash like him needed to know the error of their ways before they were blessed with the gift of their undoing. They needed to feel what it was like to know that were coerced into a nonsensical ploy, manipulated into believing such creatures of magic and flawless skin were the true gods of this world. Moreover, they needed to be _broken_ for allowing themselves to fall into such an obvious lie.

These worshippers of Fina, Flann, Gwyn and many others were nothing but mindless puppets now, their souls trapped by the carnal desires of their easily corruptible bodies. The undead that joined covenants and the humans that created half-baked laws were a lost cause now, their minds had already begun to believe the lies spoken to them over and over again. There was no way to free them from their warped imaginations without first opening their eyes to the harsh truth they were too stupid to see.

And how did one do that? It was simple; prove that their existence was nothing but an elaborate ruse, shatter their false sense of security, make them the like the very beasts they slaughtered and turn the vicious cycle of them like the filth they were. Any lies you needed o weave into a story to make them believe it was merely a mercy they afforded; they _were_ just disobedient sheep after all.

And why decide to purge such souls led astray by false gods? Because they were just wasted space after being corrupted. You could break their minds into oblivion and make them convert to whatever sense of justice you followed but you would never eradicate the rot that had originally been placed inside of their minds, a deity's influence was just too great a thing to completely forget or ignore. Such was the effect of a beautiful melody, the human mind would be compelled to lust after it despite his reforming, it was their only flaw.

The undead stuck another knife between Lautrec's platemail, watching as the deep crimson stained the metal slowly sank through chainmail and flesh. The Knight for his part was too busy staring into space whilst muttering madly to himself as the collected pain from all his other injuries dulled the pain of the new blade.

Until Argon decided to twist his wrist that is.

The undead thought about the gods that roamed the land as Lautrec's screams reach a new note – he was almost certain he would reach a C if he stuck his next knife into the meaty part of his groin.

The Ancient Lords, the Divine entities; they weren't gods. Whether the power of their souls availed them the ability to cast devastating spells, heal multitudes or live centuries, it all meant nothing when thinking of their true origins. Yes, they could heal those on the brink of death by re-growing a man's lost limbs but could those miracles and 'sacred words' erased the scars deeply imbedding in one's heart? But could it evaporate the corruption dealt to one's body? Their mind? Argon looked down at his phantasmic chest and noted the near invisible marks in his skin along with the abyssal corruption running over his hip.

Divine medicine and prayers hadn't healed the scars he had adopted as a young man, the undead curse had. Whilst it didn't heal you – otherwise the word 'curse' was useless in that regard – it had still purged injuries in his body that had previously hindered him as a human. Things like the splintered bones in his limbs that had never really healed or the mild blindness in his eyes didn't know how he had acquired. The curse, however hated it was, had at least seen to it that he suffered the test of time while in tip-top condition; how thoughtful of it. The scars that had decorated his body from the days of his youth had also nearly disappeared entirely, leaving nothing but thin sliver lines over his pale skin. He hadn't seen any 'god' do that for him besides try to sever his head from his shoulders with a blast of soul energy.

In fact, when that cross-dressing creature with illusionary snakes for legs had seen his corruption, what aid had he received? Call him ungrateful – or just plain daring – but after killing people he didn't want to kill, with weapons he couldn't even wield to impress being's he didn't particularly give a damn for; what had he truly received for his troubles? A bowl? He had died, experienced grief for innocent lives that deserved to live, lost his memories, his identity and reason for living all for the sake of a cause he only chose to follow because of a debt he owed to a fallen Astorian, and what had he gained? Strength? He was plenty strong even without all the souls he had used the bolster his abilities. Freedom? He was freer inside the confines of his cold, dank cell without anyone to bother him with quests that was more trouble than adventure. Had he gained knowledge? Perhaps… but what use was it when you had already killed off the important ones that had the answers to the questions he needed answered?

These gods had done nothing for him but fill his pathway with a web of lies to spill towns of blood. They were not Heavenly Being's but the very demons they sought to slay.

"What's your take on faith, huh?" Argon asked Lautrec, the hilt of yet another throwing knife balancing precariously on his index finger. The Knight either didn't hear him or chose to ignore him as he continued to mutter incomprehensively under his breath. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, and he stared around the room like a maniac. Argon couldn't really blame him, mental warfare wasn't everyone's strong suite. The man's head was most likely akin to a deranged monkey now that the masked undead had broken his imaginary shell. Even so, the Chosen Undead still found it pertinent to continue his train of thought.

"We learn about a deity, we join a covenant and are stressed on the importance of raising our belief in someone we only ever see depicted on mural's, tapestries and statues. When we're young our elders tell us that our faith is what allows the gods to help us in our time of need…" he watched Lautrec's gaze flicker to him as his words were heard and Argon grinned ominously.

"So if faith is really that powerful that we can heal and gain divine guidance from it, why is it that it can't save us from premature death? Why is it that even the head priest of a Church dies from too much fat clogging his heart when his faith is stronger than an entire congregation?" Lautrec remained silent and winced as he tired to move his stump for a hand that now had a knife inside of it.

"Let me hammer it close to home," Argon straddled the Knight and leaned in, his blade inches from Lautrec's neck, "Will Fina come to save you if I stab you in the throat right _now_? Surely your faith in her is second to none."

"S-Stop! Don't come any c-closer!" the Knight finally stammered out, his weak reply only disappointing Argon more.

"Think about it for a second. She's a _Goddess_, isn't she? Wouldn't she protect you if you came even an inch closer to death?" Argon pressed the blade against Lautrec's jugular vein and he froze.

"Okay, maybe not an inch closer… how about another pint of blood away from it?" the undead asked before sitting upright, causing the yellow Knight to sigh in relief. He and the madman in the mask above him knew that if he died now he would go hollow for sure. It was the only reason he was being toyed with instead of being executed immediately, Argon wanted to draw out his suffering, the bastard.

"Fina will always p-protect me, she only possesses love for m-me!"

"Yeah, like anyone would love a leather-skinned goose like you."

Lautrec growled, and Argon chuckled again. At least the traitor was rekindling his old flame again.

"She gave me my ring as proof of her love for my devotion for her love reaches through the skies above." The Knight managed to garble out as his blood began to pool around him.

Argon placed a hand to his chin in thought. "Hmm, so a simple ring imbued with some magic is enough to explain her love for you? Pretty shallow of a goddess to do considering she's a woman first. I think you've been misled as to how broad her 'affection' really is." He replied, curling the index and middle fingers on each of his hands as he emphasized the word. Again, Lautrec released a wild growl fitting of his dog-like mentality.

"Look at it this way; if I take that ring from your finger, how strong is that bond with your beloved goddess then?" Lautrec stopped and glared at Argon as if daring him to do it. The Chosen Undead merely waved his throwing knife before the man's face temptingly. The Knight was about to angrily retort when he suddenly remembered something before breaking out into a smug grin. Argon was mildly intrigued that the man could even manage to smile despite being in so much pain.

"Go ahead and do it then, it will break the moment you remove it from my corpse."

Argon seemed to understand his words before nodding in agreement. "Yes, I remember you telling me that a long time ago… what a shame that is."

The Knight of Carim uttered a small laugh despite the pain and stared at the undead. He may have been on the losing end and he was most likely about to die, but the fact that he had _anything_ to rob the Chosen Undead of was more than worth it. It was so pleasing, in fact, that he doubted he would even feel the pain of Argon's final blow.

"Unless I take the finger wearing the ring as well."

Lautrec's smile dropped before his thin eyebrows dropped into a frown. For all the masked man's wisdom and skill with a blade, tactics and general knowledge; he was a complete idiot.

"There's no possible way that would work. That ring is tethered to me and me alone. Whether you take it off my corpse or severed limb, it will still break."

Lautrec growled as the undead simply nodded in agreement like some simpleton. "Yep, so I'll just have to take it back to my world before trying to wear it."

The yellow Knight thought about it for a moment before a smirk lifted his lips. "You honestly believe that will work?"

"There's no guarantee that it _won't_ work, and if it _does_ then I guess your goddess' faith is just like those harlots on the side of the road; open for anyone to enter."

The Knight jerked his head forward to bite at the undead who smiled behind his mask. While Argon had been careful not to stab any organs, he had still prevented the man from wiggling a single wrinkled toe, the fact that he could even lift his shoulders up was amusing indeed. He admired the man's pride for a blasphemous being. It was passionate, desperate, even loving… a worthless sight for yet another sinner than could never truly be clean from the corruption of a secretly wanton figure.

Lautrec grit his teeth as the undead severed his middle finger on his good hand that held his ring, he wouldn't give him the satisfaction of watching him react to the pain.

"You won't really have to worry whether I'm right or wrong anyways," Argon placed a hand on the snapping fellow's forehead and slammed it against the floor, "you're going to die whether you beg or bark. Your faith will do nothing to prevent that." Lautrec watched him flip the knife in his hand and raise it into the air. "Because you see, when I kill you, your mind won't be focussed on the goddess you spent your undead life prostrating before…" the blade glinted in the dark and light room and Lautrec unintentionally gulped as he realized this was the end.

"It'll be focussed on the memories of your _humanity_."

"You… you're wrong, your wrong-"

"But before that, how about a small prize for all my trouble." He said and plunged the blade into the left side of Lautrec's head. this time the Knight couldn't help it as a scream to shrill escaped his throat, it caused him to dislocate his jaw with how wide he opened his mouth at the pain.

He felt Argon's knife curve upward towards his ear and he screeched as he felt the undead lodge the knife inside his head, dig his fingers into the wound and began wrenching out his ear with strength he didn't even know the masked man possessed. As if to add salt to the wound, the yellow Knight cried out in agony as the last thing he saw was the beautiful grey-stone buildings of Carim. His screams accompanied Argon's rough tugging as his consciousness was literally ripped from his head.

"AHH! AHHHH! **AHHHHHHHHHH-**"

**_SPELCH!_ **

And then there was silence.

_DRIP_

_DRIP_

_DROP_

Argon stared blankly at the bloody, shrivelled ear in his hand as white fog burst into existence around him. He felt his body being violently tugged into his own world. As he clenched his soaked hand around the appendage, a deep splotch of black grew from the pupil in his right eye before it turned his amber iris a deep violet.

* * *

Gwyndolin shifted slightly from his stationary position in the Darkmoon Tomb. He had been left to stew over his thoughts since the release of his niece and second-coming of the Chosen Undead. Whilst the visit had been a refreshing change as compared to the mundane reports from his Darkmoon Blades – since according to them nothing in Anor Londo or Lordran had changed – the last deity in the Shinning City had also allowed his deeply buried thoughts to come to the vanguard of his mind.

Speaking with the Chosen Undead – he had said his name was Argon – had been something the god hadn't anticipated. The fact that he had appeared in his physical form was even more shocking since the very act of unveiling a deity was considered a sin amongst sins. Even so, he hadn't been expecting the undead to do something even he in all his divinity couldn't hope to do; free Priscilla.

While he was a god of unparalleled strength and a master of sorcery and illusion, he was useless against that accursed painting Ariamis had crafted with that psychotic gleam in his eye those centuries ago. It wasn't because he wasn't strong enough – even for his slender build he could still tear a man's body apart with his bare hands if he pleased – but because the illusions and manifestation of the painter's will had infected the canvas, preventing him from coming up with his own counter-strategies to disarm the illusions worked into the fibres and underneath the layers of twisted colour. Ariamis had been but a drifting artist, only interested in what timeless pictures of agony he could create on a whim; as such, his skill for magic and illusion had never been enough to surpass even the ordinary mage. By that information alone, the Darkmoon god should have had the power to eliminate the amateur incantations in a heartbeat… if only his exiled brother hadn't seen it fit to impart a sliver of his power into the painting to aid that mad artist in his machinations that day. As if things weren't hard enough maintaining a crumbling kingdom, now he had to break through his own brother's will that was admittedly leagues stronger than their father's.

Another reason he had tried and failed to break out his imprisoned niece was due to his own depression. By all right, he had no right to feel depressed since it was he that had chosen – more like forced – to take over the rule of Lordran when Gwynevere had departed. That being said, the loneliness of nobody to share his thoughts, his worries and questions had weighed heavily on his proud shoulders. He had sat and waited, decade after decade; century after agonizing century waiting for the day the _true_ Chosen Undead would walk into the castle, slay Ornstein and Smough to signify his worthiness, and _finally_ walk into the chamber of a Princess that didn't exist before they were given the final orders that were not her own.

Despite what his loyal Knightess and Firekeeper said to ease his frayed nerves, he did feel some disgust for the lies he had to weave so that his home could live once again; so that his father's wishes did not turn to ash like he had all those eons ago…

Gwyndolin didn't admire the way he had sentenced _millions_ of undead to their deaths and eventual hollowing here in Lordran. He didn't fancy that all these people, once human and unknowing to the dying of the First Flame had been brought to his inherited kingdom to suffer the tests laid out for them, question their faith when they fell seventy times at the first hurdle only to curse the Lord of Sunlight they worshipped and fade into memory like cooling embers from a fire.

While he shouldn't have allowed the lives of lesser beings to fill his busy mind, the part of him that was the least bit humane saw the suffering of so many as a stain on his hands he would truly never wash away. His father, sister and many other gods had seen the human race as nothing more than bottom-feeders of the food chain; the mindless puppets that served them with blind devotion. He had thought differently, however.

Humans had always been an intriguing species to the god, whether his father called him a fool for it or not. Their perseverance despite possessing weaker qualities and lesser power never stopped them in their endeavours to attain that which their hearts desired. Their determination was fierce, their wills near that of Knight Artorias; and their reasoning for doing things most unorthodox was perplexing. Yet still, he found that it warranted closer observation, greater study. He admired them for the simple fact that things like simple facts didn't stop them, even when all the odds pointed against their favour, they turned the tides as if it were an effortless task.

They caught his undivided attention for the reason that they all possessed the very thing all gods were missing in their divine authority, something he himself wished he had the chance to possess; humanity.

It was a fickle and unpredictable stream with many meanders and no direct routes. With it, a human possessed the ability to change society itself, bend laws seen as unbendable and change hearts that were hard as stone. What's more, humanity granted these people, these lesser beings the one thing no god could attest to possessing; the freedom to govern their own lives.

Being born a god meant your responsibilities were laid out even before you were cognitive enough to understand what your name was. It meant conforming to a system, a duty you could never truly abandon in fear of losing the trust and faith of the very race you called inferior to your own.

Whilst Gwyndolin never really thought of abandoning his role as Darkmoon Lord, he yeaned for humanity so that he could have made decisions worthy enough to change what had occurred in the past. Perhaps with that ability to freely choose, he would have been able to stop the exile of his elder brother. Perhaps then his sister wouldn't had left with Flann, if only he had just taken a moment to talk to her, state that he was still there to help her when she required it; that she didn't have to do this all alone…

But he hadn't. Not because a lack of humanity stopped him from doing so, but because of his own reservations in himself. He was the last born of Gwyn, the youngest of the Lordran gods and yet also the wisest. How well that knowledge had been to him when chaos had come down.

He still imagined what it would have been like to freely govern his life with the same willpower these humans seemed to live by. He wondered if it would have helped him to make up his indecisive mind when watching his family break apart before his eyes, whether it would have forced him into action in order to keep what was most precious to him. Would it have given him the strength to keep coming back to the Painting of Ariamis to attempt to free the last member of his shattered family even if the task seemed futile… or would possessing that unpredictable power make him just like the crazed Undead he saw in his hall right now?

True to his word as an observer, Gwyndolin had watched the very undead he had blessed with the Lordvessel each and every time he had entered his domain of fake grandeur. The man was foolish, silly and unorthodox; the very traits the god seemed most interested in. He had watched Argon grow, rise and fall time and time again in this slowly darkening land, yet to his surprise the undead never seemed to give into the defeat that was on the borderline of his optimism.

Gwyndolin wouldn't boast to understanding where the man had come from, or how he seemed unaffected by the trials placed in his way. To him, Argon just seemed like the first undead, other than the one dressed in black armour, not daunted by the tough course he had set, the only one ready to reach the bar he had set too high for many to obtain.

All that strength, knowledge, and unperturbed determination and yet… the man which the god saw now in the great hall matched none of these attributes.

Gwyndolin had been told by the undead himself that he had ventured into Oolacile and slain the ancient terror that had plagued and destroyed that once beautiful land, he had seen for himself the corruption taking over his champion's body like a cancer that couldn't be purged. So why hadn't he, as the reason for this human's suffering, taken the steps to help the race he admired so much?

Why had ignored it, put aside Argon's corruption like some sub-par ailment instead of using his vast stores of knowledge to prevent his soldier, his champion, his trusted sword from falling like the rest had? For all his power as a god, he couldn't have felt more useless than he did now, watching in dismay as the undead he had been searching for was breaking down madly before him.

In all truth, after witnessing him rescue the niece had tried and failed to save and have the gall to speak to him like he was another pitstop on his long journey, Gwyndolin had gained a sort of soft spot for the undead. Call it his admiration, or blind trust after carefully scrutinising Argon's character, but he had seen it fit to explain a little of the truth he had kept deeply buried in his aching chest for so long. The agony of looking at the only undead to come this far, see his divine presence and react as calmly as his person would allow instead of glaring at him with hatred, was too much for the lone god to bear. In all his years, when the levels of Anor Londo had once housed humans and other species of similar breeds, he had never seen such understanding in their eyes like he did in Argon's. Never experienced such kindness despite the massacre he had had to endure just to arrive at his current destination.

It astounded Gwyndolin that this lone undead, this unknown variable in a great calculation, could force out the bottomless pain he felt simply by conversing normally as if it was the most casual thing in the world. The god hadn't understood it at first, hadn't realized the gem he had uncovered after so _long_ waiting for the one that could save him from the mistakes his line had made. Inside, Gwyndolin truly mourned that he had once again been too late to save what he held dear. He hadn't wanted to make another innocent soul sacrifice everything so that the world could live again. If he had the choice or the power to prevent just that, he would have gladly given his own life to absolve the sins of his father and his accomplices. It was his duty as the only remaining offspring living in Lordran; and yet it was a painful shame that his soul wasn't strong enough.

Gwyndolin shook his head, clearing his mind away from the many mistakes his indecisiveness had brought upon him. Now was not the time for his depression to take over, not when he had just lost his champion to the very thing he sought to purge.

As he straightened his spine, the god drew his sceptre. He didn't even have to concentrate much as his body was transported from the Darkmoon Tomb to the Great Hall of Anor Londo. The snakes below him hissed as the scent of blood invaded their senses and Gwyndolin surveyed the area with a calm, composed gaze from behind his crown.

The obvious thing to note was the abundance of blood that coated different parts of the room. Splashes decorated the thick pillars like flicks from an artist's wet brush whilst parts of the floor possessed deep puddles of the substance. Near the wings of the hall, at the foot of each stairway lay the fallen weapons of his Royal Sentinels, haphazardly placed that also dripped with crimson liquid. His champion had grown leagues stronger if he had possessed the capability to render his mightiest guards to such bloodshed.

The Lord of the Darkmoon observed the mess quietly before he heard the deep breathing of a person nearby. He swerved his head and his eyes landed on the hunched over Chosen Undead, his chest bare and decorated with near invisible scars from a time long passed. He sat on his knees with his back to Gwyndolin, gasping as his black hair hung over his eyes. The god's gaze lingered on his right side, completely encased in thin black veins that even now attempted to stretch over to his left side.

It was a sad sight to behold. Watching the man the god had seen grow to become a juggernaut capable of saving Lordran, now reduced to the grim visage he saw before him. He should have never made others take on the responsibility that was his to solve. He should have never listened to Frampt urging him to pass on his duty to a race only created by this curse of Dark. Even so, it was he that had failed to save the man before him. Thus, it was also his duty to remove him from the living, he had suffered enough.

Gwyndolin gazed sadly at Argon before his eyes saw something in his bloodied right hand. Something that intrigued him to no end.

**"An item of reprisal, how fitting."** The undead turned his masked gaze his way, staring back impassively whilst still breathing erratically. It seemed as if he were struggling to keep conscious, however, whether it was a ploy, or the truth was questionable. A corrupted undead could be just as unpredictable as the humanity he carried. Argon rose to his feet as the god looked for even a sign that he was still partly the same. If he still retained some of his old self, perhaps he could try and save him before it was too late. Although, if he were to be honest with himself, it was probably already too late.

"Is that really all you have to say to me?" his tone was harsh. Gwyndolin didn't blame him.

**"And what would thou have me say?"**

"The _truth_."

Gwyndolin flinched slightly, he had found out his lie. How typical of his terrible luck. Still, he had to see just how far Argon had delved. If the undead would be willing to explain his findings, then maybe he could also be saved from the abyssal corruption. It wasn't too late to give up just yet. A cognitive undead was a safe one as far as he was concerned.

**"Thou would accuse me of lying? Foolish undead, for what purpose would I, Lord Gwyndolin, need to speak an untruth to a lesser being?" **his voice gave no indication of his pain, only the false anger he laid on as thickly as possible.

"Lesser being," the undead scoffed and pocketed the shrivelled ear in his hand, "if you didn't lie then tell me, _Lord Gwyndolin_, why did Quelaag need to die? What need was there to slay a woman tainted by the mistakes of her predecessor; but humane enough to still keep what remained of her family alive? Were you of the same mind as your pathetic father when you assigned her to die for a simple _bell_?"

The god clenched his teeth at the insult but remained silent.

"What of Sif, huh? Was he a nuisance your grand plan could do without?!"

**"Calm thyself undead. The workings of thy quest-"**

"_NO!_ You preached to me about how this quest will save the lives of thousands. I've had the displeasure of _claiming_ the lives of thousands in the hope that each soul I absorb gains me the strength to change this desolate place of terror. Yet the more I live amongst the mistakes of you gods, I'm reminded how much of ruse this all is." He paced back and forth before the god, breathing as heavily as before, his hands grabbing at his hair trying to make heads or tails of the current dilemma.

"You tasked me with killing all of your father's accomplices and collecting their souls… but what does it _really_ mean? What purpose would come from killing the God of Death, the Goddess of Life, the Duke of Lordran? It seems to me that all you want is to be the single, solitary ruler of this putrid land. I can understand how you must fell; the shunned son of Gwyn, ignored from birth only to be left with his father's sloppy-seconds. If you ask me, the act of killing every other god related to that glowing bastard would be the perfect revenge!"

**"Enough, undead!"**

"Ah, hit a nerve, have I? You must be seething whilst realizing you can't do a damn thing to your _Chosen Undead_. How does it feel knowing you're being blasphemed by the very person meant to _save_ your sorry ass?" Argon began to chuckle as he spoke, making it harder and harder for the Darkmoon god to keep a straight face.

He had seen many worthy undead lose their minds due to the strenuous circumstances – a crass understatement given that it was he that had conjured up the land's challenges – and in most cases it often started with the same symptoms Argon was displaying. How he wished he didn't have to see another brave soul fall to his own foolishness.

**"Thou art not in the proper state of mind. Thus, thine words cannot be taken as simply as thou appearance. I ask of thee to rest, lest the Dark overcome thine broken thoughts."**

"Rest? State of _mind_? Do you even hear yourself when you speak?" Argon replied with another throaty chuckle. It was clear he was bordering near hollow with the uncharacteristic behaviour, however, he still seemed to be able to retain decent cognitive function. If he was still partially positive, he could reform Argon's mind. If he didn't save him then this world was doomed.

"You know, I've been studying up on you so-called 'god's'. It's very eye-catching with the way so many authors describe your kind as majestic, ethereal, timeless and the like. But I suppose that just goes to show that they've never had the chance to meet you in person or have the honour of being screwed for their souls-worth whenever you and your 'heavenly' race decide to issue out commands like our creator's. That reminds me… do you even know _who_ our real creators are? They certainly weren't you guys, you're all to prideful to admit to creating a race that defies all laws and reality."

Gwyndolin watched as the undead raised his vein-covered right hand and grabbed the edges of his porcelain mask. With a tug, the clips were removed, and he lowered the white covering slowly. If the god hadn't been surprised to see this complete one-eighty in the undeads personality, the condition of his face definitely shocked Gwyndolin enough for force a gasp from him.

While the masked undead still possessed his pale complexion and sunken eyelids, the veins that had previously just pooled at his jaw, had now completely masked the right side of his face like some disease. The skin was riddled in twisted veins that criss-crossed, curled and wrapped around his face, only stopping at the bridge of his nose. What was even more perplexing was his right eye. The god had known Argon possessed deep amber eyes the first time he had removed his mask to converse with him out of respect for the god. Now, however, what was once an amber iris now resembled a malevolent violet glint, the white around it a deep, inky black.

"Do you want to know what I think? Gods… were once very much like humans – undead to be more specific." He began to say as he dropped the mask to the floor carelessly. Gwyndolin tensed when he drew a Silver Knight's sword from the scabbard on his hip. He knew where this was going. It seemed that yet again, he had been too late…

"When the First Flame lit one day, quite spontaneously, as most annals describe; you mindless lot found the first souls of Lords, thus began the Age of Fire. However, if we were to look more closely at that _tiny_ shred of information, you'll come to the same understanding I have." He paced around before fully facing Gwyndolin.

"You _found_ a soul within that fire, meaning you were nothing but empty _husks_ before that light came to be. That means that your race was _exactly_ like us undead at one stage. You were all useless hollows inside a dank cave with no sense of direction. Although no one has the fireballs to say it outright, the truth is you were basically human."

**"And what is the point thou hath?"**

The Chosen Undead grinned like he had just been asked what his dark fantasy was. It wasn't a grin Gwyndolin new him to use. He prepared himself for what was to come.

"My _point_ is that you are not gods, just mortal beings with a greater life-force. And _that_ is the reason I'm going to enjoy splitting you open for the _sinner_ you are…"

Gwyndolin's snakes hissed loudly as he drew his sceptre more. They thrashed and writhed below his body before raising him up to a taller height as the Chosen Undead began striding towards him. Mad as the undead may be at the moment, his only choice right now as the cause of Argon's condition and the last deity of Anor Londo was to eliminate him. The god just hoped that by doing so and making him reincarnate, his untamed bloodlust would at least be curbed so that he could hear Gwyndolin's story in full.

For once, despite the pain in his chest he felt at the current situation, the Lord of the Darkmoon scoffed before smiling lightly. He dared to call _him_ a sinner?

**"Mark the words of mineself, Gwyndolin! Thou shalt not go unpunished!"**

* * *

**I was going to make this another 20k chapter with all the action and so forth, but I haven't posted in two full weeks. Therefore, here you go for now. The other half of this chapter is nearly completed, I'm so excited! And yes, I know I used the phrase 'sloppy-seconds' wrong. It was intentional to better describe Argon's warped thinking.**

**Also, please do tell me; are you guys enjoying this fic so far?**

**Tell me in the form of a review if you are and I'd be happy to hear your thoughts and any useful flames that could help to better this chapter.**

**Lastly, if you enjoy a more light-hearted but still hilarious version of the Dark Souls universe, I'm currently writing a spin-off for this story called 'Cinderella Wore Glass Shoes, So Priscilla Had A Tail And Scales'. Go wild with the content I've left to your disposal.**

**Have a great day/evening, keep safe as we slowly purge this annoying-ass pandemic with a buff so OP it makes other's seem like minor MP-boosts, and God Bless 'ya.**

**Oyasumi.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Hello again my esteemed readers! Are you as exited as I am today?**

**_-you mean excited. You left out the 'c'._ **

**Really? Oh, man. I guess I was just too pumped to notice.**

**_-or you were just too lazy to change it so you created this exchange as compensation._ **

**Hey, don't go around spilling my secrets now.**

**_-that isn't a secret, it's a useless bit of information. A secret would be me saying you geek out whenever you receive a rev-mmph!_ **

**There, there, just relax. Take a deep whiff of this chloroform-soaked handkerchief and forget your worries… (*watches illogical-self pass out)**

**That worked well… should have used that sooner. Huh. On with ze story…**

* * *

He was faster than the first time he had faced Gwyndolin, stronger too. At that time, he was the first undead to receive the title of 'Chosen' and he was barely able to face the god in the armour of his father's knights. It was different story now that he was half bare, however. In truth, the god assumed the lack of protective covering would be more of a disadvantage to the undead now that he was open to receive a myriad of the Darkmoon god's powerful spells. It was just a shame Gwyndolin's logic had decreed that possibility as either stupid or impossible. The main reason being that the god's luck was never that high, as such, his odds were never that easy; they had never been easy to begin with.

Gwyndolin watched as Argon spun his body, narrowly dodging a soul spear fired his way before charging forward again, a menacing smile adorning his untamed features.

If he had to be accurate, it had probably been a few weeks since the undeads party had revisited Anor Londo. That wasn't nearly enough time to hone one's skills in battle but the god argued that when you were an undead with the ability to better yourself with the intake of souls, the possibilities were evidently endless. When he had begun watching Argon the first time he had set foot in the castle, his movements hadn't been any different to that of a trained soldier with a dirty fighting style. His movements with weaponry had been poised an elegant, however, he displayed an unarmed combat stance equivalent to a gruff brawler.

Now, he fought like some feral imp, his body lowered and only one hand on the hilt of his sword. The stance was odd and he ran as if his arms were limp. That notion would also prove to be false as he backstepped another homing spell, ran up to the snakes anchoring the god and slashing at the one nearest to himself.

Gwyndolin winced as the snake's head and side received fresh cuts from the sharp blade. Although they were but illusions he used they were still apart of his own body, the blood spilling from said snake was more than enough proof. Another snake next to the one Argon was busy hacking raised its head and hissed. It opened its mouth and attempted to take a bite out of the undead but was rewarded with a roundhouse kick to the jaw. Gwyndolin grunted as the snake's jaw was dislocated and slammed his sceptre into the undeads body, sending him skidding back. The god may have possessed magical prowess that overpowered both his siblings by leagues but he was useless at close combat, something he rued to this day.

He raised the sceptre as it began to glow azure again and watched his opponent stare at it with mild worry. The glow turned into a large orb that condensed until it was the size of his head before flying forwards. The god grumbled again as Argon waited for the orb to reach his little bubble before rolling under it casually. That had been the third time the maddened undead had dodged his most powerful attack. It was staring to get annoying.

Argon looked at him and smiled mockingly.

Their battle for the undeads mind had only begun minutes ago, and already the endgame was quite clear; Gwyndolin was going to lose. The cuts and slices adorning both his snakes and clothing were small but bled freely like a gushing well. The smith, Borgus had done a good job creating the finest weaponry for the castles knights to use, it was just a shame that they were being used to kill the very beings they were mean to protect.

Whilst Argon hadn't survived thus far without a few good hits via soul arrow and gold darts, he still seemed more than energetic to continue as if he were merely scratched on the cheek; and this was after he had been hit by Gwyndolin's strongest attack at the beginning of the battle. The Lord of the Darkmoon tensed again as Argon ran forward, arms flying behind his body as he ran close to the ground. He crouched low on the last step before leaping into the air, sword arm raised to cleanly cut through another of Gwyndolin's snake's when he was shot with a concurrent stream of darts. The undead was sent falling to the ground with a loud _thud_ before rolling to the side to avoid getting bitten by the snake he had just cut.

It amazed Gwyndolin at how strong his champion had become in such a short space of time. He understood the aspect of reinforcing one's body with souls, it was a method many undead favoured as a way to face the challenges ahead. His own Darkmoon Knightess was fond of using souls to increase her endurance, however that worked. Yet watching Argon fight was like watching his own snakes, his movements were unorthodox and oddly flexible in combat. It was if his body wasn't even alive to begin with, just a puppet of flesh being manipulated by some invisible puppeteer.

He observed Argon as he lifted his legs from the ground he was lying on, placing his palms on either side of his head. As his knees bent inward he pushed onto his arms, effectively flipping his body from the ground and onto his feet. He picked up his sword by giving the hilt a small kick with the tip of his boot. The blade lifted off the ground and he caught it before pointing the red point to Gwyndolin. He was still grinning ominously, his corrupted right eye glowing a malevolent purple.

Whether his strength had come from an abundance of souls or due to the abyss corroding his body like acid, the god didn't know. What he did know was that he had to change his strategy before this battle actually killed him. Despite the fact that he was a god, he couldn't deny the fact that if he suffered anymore deep wounds, he would disperse into souls like his Royal Sentinels had previously. He didn't have any reservations towards killing the undead he saw before him, it needed to be done. What he _did_ have an issue with was whether he would be able to do it or not.

Thinking rationally, there was no way he, as the god of the Darkmoon _couldn't_ manage to slay a weaker being. The power coursing through his veins was an unstoppable flow capable of making Anor Londo a changed civilization with a simple flick of wrist if he so pleased, however; the thought of killing the _one_ undead that had come so far as his champion made an uncomfortable weight settle in his stomach. Knowing that Argon couldn't truly die was a reassurance he gratefully accepted – even it was only because of the curse they were all trying to get rid of – but the uncertainty of whether he would change back to his passive form, remain the same or go hollow, was stopping him from acting.

That, and the guilt weighing over his crowned head. He had been the one to enforce this 'Undead Quest' onto the people exiled to the Asylum. It had been because of his crass thinking and Frampt's devious urging that he had crafted this impossible mission nobody could complete. And of course, it was his fault Argon was like this.

Although he knew he, like his father, didn't have a choice but to seek a way to save their home from the Dark; the realization that he, a being of justice, had sentenced so many innocent lives to pre-mature death was like a fist to the face. How could he even preach to be one of benevolence when his hands were stained with a sea of blood? Yet, he had to wonder whether this was Velka punishing him from beyond her exile. The goddess had been a dangerous witch no one, not even his father, could control. Her role as a deity was to judge the sinful and although it was a noble profession she found in the First Flame, she had been shunned, hated and exiled for her accusations towards the Four Lords.

She had damned all of them for eliminating the Everlasting Dragon's after all, calling it a needless slaughter towards creatures of pure neutrality. She had been partly correct, of course, there hadn't really been a need to slay every last one of the scaled beasts but… how could he have argued with his father, the Lord of Sunlight? Even though he as Gwyn's son hadn't engaged in the War that occurred before the Age of Fire, he still felt the weight of his predecessor's sins on his shoulders. As the remaining god to inhabit this once beautiful kingdom, he rightfully took ownership of the debt that went unpaid. Perhaps this very loophole was the reason his sister had eloped without a care for those she ruled over. How bittersweet it was, and yet Gwyndolin partially understood the ways of his foolish elder sister.

When he thought about it carefully, maybe the whole reason his plan backfired on him like this was because it _wasn't_ his plan to begin with? He had called the Undead Quest his own but he really knew less than a fraction of its origins. It had only been because of Frampt that it had come to his ears, and even then the title was shrouded in fog. He had used the serpent's coaxing as an excuse to formulate this death-trap of a quest for any undead who dared to approach it. What if the idea, the rumour of an undead quest had been planted by the black-haired Witch herself millennium ago? What if the reason Argon was this way, corrupted and after his head was Velka's way of administering her punishment onto the divinity of Lordran? He wouldn't put it passed her, he had absolved any notice of her covenant by establishing his own on top of it, after all. It had been necessary after the rebellion had ensued and she was found guilty to be the perpetrator that instigated it. That was why he had decided to come out of his isolation in the first place, order his few but powerful worshipers to seek vengeance over those that sin against the god's.

Now, however, he wondered whether his quick but foolish thinking had all been his undoing in the end. Perhaps Argon, in his own delirium, was correct in assuming he was a sinner. The undead may not have known the teachings of the dark goddess's covenant, but he sure seemed to capable of identifying foul acts when they were hidden by veils of divinity. Maybe Velka had been pulling the strings all along when his champion had escaped the Undead Asylum? Maybe this was _her_ vengeance against him and the other god's?

"Do you wonder _why_ there aren't any birds in Lordran?"

Gwyndolin was snapped from his negative thoughts. It was no use mulling over his mistakes now, he was still in battle. He turned his head back towards his opponent.

"I've two theories that warrant some thought if you're interested." Argon said, as he pulled out a long dart from his forearm before looking at it curiously. The sinner had shot them from his large sleeve, twelve of them in total. What was more interesting was the fact that they hurt more than the soul arrows he had been hit with. It made another twisted smile pull back his cheeks. The 'god' had literal tricks up his sleeves… he was beginning to like the tall being _very_ much.

"The first," Argon said as he put a hand into a pouch on his hip, "is that when this curse decided to urinate on the land your sparkly father cultivated, the natural wildlife found it pertinent to remove itself. Which animal wouldn't when realizing its habitat was in danger? Aside from the massive crow that brought me here, I suppose the other feathered beasts fled, lest they be equally cursed or eaten by that building-sized bird."

Gwyndolin frowned at this. So it _was_ Velka's doing. Her relationship with crows had turned into an obsession that bled into her worshiper's devotion for her. It had been so bad at one stage that a few of her follower's had mutated into the very animals they used as a conduit to communicate with the goddess of sin. After her exile; her turned follower's, a sane cleric and the remainder of her miracles had been cast into the Painted World. Those variables were one of the reason's why he had fought to desperately free his niece from her prison. Whilst he wished for a member of his family not to suffer alone, a hidden part of him was also weary of her discovering those accursed forms of magic. Priscilla had idolised Velka since she was a child, before the Witch's exile; and besides that, she also possessed the Life-Hunt. If a cross breed with the ability to slay gods with her own strength had discovered Velka's Occultic power and found a way to utilize it… there would be no safe haven for any god alive should her mind be turned to hate the Great Lords.

Even so, he couldn't exactly rule this as an act of the goddess. Velka had gone missing after her exile. Not even his best spies had been able to find her after her most devoted followers had all been slain. It was possible that she had lost her connection after that; a lack of faith was detrimental to a god's power. But then again, Velka hadn't required her worshipers to possess an abundance of faith for her to grow in strength… she had sought out smarter followers instead.

Gwyndolin shook his head. Whether this unfavourable circumstance was her doing or not, he would mull it over later, when he had saved the Chosen Undead he placed all his trust into, the one he honestly believed would save this dying land and absolve this curse once in for all.

Argon raised an eyebrow when the god didn't reply to him. He had thought his first reason was a pretty good one. Surely that reason would deserve at least a smidge of praise from the sinner. Allowing them a few good brain-teasers was the best mercy he could afford them, after all. He shrugged nonchalantly and withdrew a grey ring from his pouch before putting it on. He felt the magic course through his veins and took a small step forward. When his boot didn't make a noise, he smiled, he loved this ring so much. It allowed him the freedom to dish out his holy smite to the oblivious blasphemers around him, how pleasant the element of surprise was.

"The second reason is that they were all mutated." The god's head followed him as he walked towards a large pillar, his hand back in his pouch in search of something. As he lifted his multi-coloured eyes to stare at the feminine-man's gold crown, he grinned wider. The excitement was just _killing_ him. He put the second ring on as he passed behind the broad pillar, humming at the euphoria of more magic filling his body.

"Turned into the beats we undead fight till this day, their once beautiful feathers fell away to the rot their oversized bodies possessed. Now they stand as nothing but monstrous creatures, waiting with salivating beaks for fresh meat."

The Darkmoon god raised his sceptre and prepared another volley of soul energy for when the undead reappeared but stood in mild confusion when his presence had disappeared entirely from his senses. After a few moments of waiting he approached the pillar only to find nothing behind it. He grunted in annoyance and swivelled his head around the room. A few of his snakes extended from him to sense the air, flicking their long tongues out. Now he understood just how annoyed his father used to feel when he cloaked his form from him.

"But do you know what I _really_ think?" Gwyndolin snapped his head to the side and lashed out with a soul arrow. It exploded against the ground with a big burst of light and one of his snakes was stabbed in the eye with a throwing knife. He grit his teeth from the pain.

So, he couldn't sense Argon's presence. He knew Argon had learnt the spell of invisibility from Oolacile since he used it most of the time when creeping into the castle. What perplexed him was how the spell also allowed him to cloak his presence and life-force entirely. He couldn't even hear the undeads footsteps. To his knowledge no Oolacilean spell had the power to do so, not when the fallen kingdom's focus had been on controlling the light itself.

_Unless…_

Gwyndolin smiled slightly. Vinheim had surely advanced their armaments over the years. He relaxed his body and commanded his snakes to retract, pooling them around him like a hedge of fangs as he concentrated on one of his stronger spells. He waited patiently, doubts still swirling in his mind but his determination steadily rising as he formed a large ball of soul energy above his crown.

"These now flightless pigeons and hawks have all become undead like the lot of us here…" Argon's voice echoed around the room near his left but Gwyndolin didn't move. He continued to concentrate, amassing his power into one powerful blast as he left himself open, his snakes hissing in fury as another was awarded a large cut under the neck.

He closed his eyes and waited a few more moments, his spell ready to be released. When he heard someone huffing behind him, he opened his eyes wide and allowed his orb to convulse.

"They're all _dead_… just like you will be." Gwyndolin lowered his sceptre as the orb above his head split into a mass of hundreds of miniature balls of blue flame.

**"Azur Blaze."** He said as Argon's presence re-emerged. The god whipped around as the undead withdrew two rings from his fingers before dashing forward towards the homing soul energy.

It didn't matter whether he was the one in the wrong, whether Velka really was using his champion to punish him or if this was his karmic justice, he _would_ save this undead. One way or another…

* * *

Priscilla felt anxious, or a sense of foreboding at least. She never usually felt like this after leaving her saviour to his own devices for a while but when it felt this urgent, her gut was seldom wrong. She had pegged it down to her over-exaggeration over little matters that ended up creating a turtle-shells worth of stress for her cross bred shoulders to carry like some overworked dung-beetle, comparing her present persona to the one she adopted before meeting Argon. The differences were rather vast in more ways than one and for once she entertained the thought that she may be more smitten for the unusually jolly Chosen Undead than she had originally perceived – while at the same time understanding that love made even the wisest a fool.

For one, she had never felt so compelled to empathize with people like she did now. She had felt terrible when people came into the Painted World without a way back, sure, but want to sit down with them like a gracious host and offer them beverages after their mind's had gone 'splat'? Not really, no. That had all changed after she had left the painting and Anor Londo, it was as if her womanly switch of abundant kindness and understanding had been flipped. Which wasn't a bad thing in her opinion, if anything she was glad she was a kinder person; she just hoped that kindness wouldn't disappear if a certain someone in her life did as well, whatever gods still out there forbid.

Another thing worth noting was the racing of her half-dragon heart and heating of her cool cheeks. She didn't understand why it beat with such urgency, especially when with the undead. She wasn't a fool not to sum it up to her affection for Argon but at the same time she didn't think her heart racing _every_ time he was near was a normal thing. The redness in her face was also a problem. She had never understood what Jeremiah meant when he said that a blush was an unstoppable force. Now she did, and it was frustrating her to no end. She wasn't one to cling onto the people she saw as precious – her 'father' had at least taught her how to act noble before he dumped her in that painting – but the rate at which her cheeks were filled with blood when they were close wasn't doing wonders to her health. At times she would feel light-headed after Argon had spoken to her and she cringed every time her voice was a tone louder than what she actually meant to make it.

The last thing on her itinerary of irritation was her annoyingly large, fluffy and adorable tail – that's right, she was vain enough to admit it. She hadn't realized that it had more uses than a comfy pillow, a hand warmer and nice addition to her appearance – because even she, in all her humbleness, had to agree she was quite attractive… or at least King Jeremiah had said so. Now she had to live with the fact that Argon had been subtly using it to ascertain her moods and reactions whenever they conversed, and he had said it whilst in _battle_ of all places! How embarrassing, how shameful! What a creep, a pervert, a stalker, a- wait, wasn't it her fault for not noticing her tail had that attribute?

Even so, despite the embarrassment it had brought her, she had gotten closer to the aloof man. He could be as distant as he wanted to at this point but there was no stopping him from the trust they had both cultivated. Whilst his deeper secrets and burdens weren't as crystal clear as his smaller ones, she could boast to having the closest relationship with the undead when it came to knowing him on a personal level, his previous companions be damned.

With that being said, she knew that this sudden feeling of uneasiness for the undead so closely kept to her heart was something to worry about, even if she and Sir Havel were only a few metres away from him. Her gut, as she mentioned before, was never wrong when it came to that unpredictable undead.

As Priscilla turned her gaze back to the ex-archbishop and giant blacksmith happily laughing at some joke, she couldn't help but take a moment to smile herself. Sir Havel had been through the same isolation that she had those many years ago. Whilst her situation had been terrible, his had just been a true nightmare from the beginning. Having the last Everlasting Dragon you didn't trust in the slightest set you up before making your best friend side with the enemy and betray your integrity was a sour patch of moss to bite down on.

Havel's hatred towards her father had grown to immeasurable heights over the many years he had gone mad in that tower, and whilst he was after the pale-drake's head, he surely hadn't forgotten about the Lord of Sunlight either. She had once mentioned to him that Gwyn wasn't to blame for listening to the lies of his Duke since he _was_ a trusted confidant; however, that had just blown up in her face when the armoured man had countered that being the Sunlight Lord's ally for so many years meant more than the advice to some traitor that had sentenced his own kin to their deaths over petty jealousy. It had been difficult to argue with his solid logic; if that had been her, she would have sided with Havel. There was less of a chance of being lied to since the man's record was basically squeaky clean as compared to the devious dragons.

Seeing the otherwise grouchy ex-bishop allow himself the chance to sit down and laugh his current worries away with an old friend had been a nice sight, though. When they had climbed down yet _another_ agonizing flight of ivory steps, they had come face to kneecap with a hulking mass of a giant smith in charcoal armour. The sight hadn't been that surprising to her since she had been taller than the being at one stage, however, the tools this deep-voiced giant was using to craft such weapons like the blades of the Silver Knights had been quite a curiosity.

But before her mind had even given her a chance to assess what her eyes saw and effectively come up with a question regarding the strange sight, her companion had seen it fit to audibly gasp before greeting the massive life-form with a shout worthy of the usual arguments he had with Argon.

From the introduction she had received from both Sir Havel and the smith known as Borgus, the two had been friends from the beginning of the Age of Fire, when the giant race had partnered with the Great Lords to overthrow the Everlasting Dragons. That was undoubtedly a long friendship if she added the numbers correctly, a _very_ long friendship. It made her realize just how old the ex-bishop was and he wasn't even a god; merely a being on a higher plane of existence than humans.

"Ahahahaha…" the man seemed to be out of breath with how much he had been laughing thus far. It was strangely enjoyable coming from a man that was otherwise mostly grumpy. "So there walks in Artorias, a wolf cub the size of a chest in his gauntlets as little Ciaran gives his dirty armour and torn cape a once over. He looks at her through that hood of his and they keep a steady gaze although neither can see the other's eyes before he asks: 'Ciaran, can I keep this puppy?' The Lord's Blade, bless her soul, was so overcome with emotion for the cute furry rascal that she could barely speak!" Havel exclaimed, throwing his hands wide as he told another story of his past. He had removed his helm so that he could get a proper look at his old friend before diving head-first into tales and jokes that would probably go on for eons if Priscilla didn't stop him soon.

Borgus, for his part, was just as animated in their conversation; nodding his head in agreement here, laughing along there before offering his input in at a later stage. It was like the two had been away on their respective travels and had just reunited after so very long – which wasn't far from the truth. The goddess watched the ex-bishop's eyes sparkle for the first time since he had been given his first sprite of humanity by a muttering Argon. As much as her mind screamed at her to interrupt them in favour of her worry for their third companion's health, she was finding it really difficult to say anything at the moment; Sir Havel's storytelling was almost as mesmerising as Argon's. the ex-bishop really played the 'old-man' role well.

"What happened then?" Borgus said in anticipation, excitement obviously present in his booming voice. He had stopped his dutiful smithing to listen intently to his good friend speak of another hilarious joke. For once in the giant's long life, Havel was the first person he didn't have a problem stopping his work to openly _speak_ to. Whilst Ornstein and that undead with the mask had done their respective best to make him open up more to a conversation, he had remained stubborn to their pleas; opting to listen rather than comment. He didn't despise company in the slightest, it was just that he was more of the quiet type in comparison to other giants like his leader, Hawkeye Gough. However, when it was a question in regard to a certain club-swinging Archbishop he would always be down to contribute to a conversation. It was his only exception.

"The lass looked at him, barely holding in her desire to pet young Sif before reminding him that animals weren't especially permitted in Anor Londo. Needless to say, it took the Knight less than a split-second to counter her words. He said to her, and I quote, saying: 'But we kept Ornstein.'

The lion-helmed Spearman just happened to be walking passed to hear those exact words before he turned to them with mild irritation when he had discovered what the two had been talking about." Havel and Borgus began to chuckle uncontrollably again as they imagined the situation play out in their minds.

"The grand talisman on top was when Ciaran uncharacteristically laughed back, further annoying the golden Knight before she simply said: 'fair point'. _Fair point?_ Ornstein had spent the remainder of the day chasing them and the innocent little Sif around the city before Gough had decided to 'gently' calm down the red-head with a choke hold. Bahahaha!"

Even the cross breed had to share a small giggle with the two loud beings. It was just too infectious to refuse.

After a moment, both of them came down from their high before the smith began to speak. "Shame all are gone now."

Havel looked up at him. "All four, you say? When?"

"Artorias departed for Oolacile on the same night as Lord Gwyn. The Lord's Blade and Master Gough followed their comrade shortly after. No one returned and now no one is home anymore except the Lion. He fought the friend with the mask but fell with the Executioner. All gone now, no one left." The smith said, shaking his head sadly. It was truly a mournful moment when everyone you knew died or fled before your eyes, leaving you all alone to mull over the 'what ifs'. Either way, Borgus was just glad his old friend was still well after the dragon had tricked them all. It had been a sad day when Havel had been forced to leave as well that day.

"Friend in the mask?" Havel repeated with a hand to his beard and Priscilla's eyes flashed to the smith, her tail wagging in anticipation. "Do you mean Argon? Undead fellow, black hair, doesn't shut up."

Borgus nodded solemnly. "Same one. Friend of yours?"

"More like nuisance." the bishop muttered before his brow furrowed even deeper, making dark lines appear above the bridge of his nose. If the nagging undead had been able to slay Ornstein and that gluttonous Smough it meant he was more powerful than the man gave him credit for. If he were to understand what his gigantic friend was saying carefully, Argon possessed the power to slay a god of he had the drive or motive for it; meaning that when he and Priscilla had opened the door to his tower… Havel shivered slightly. He was glad the undead had been his usual stupid-self that day. He wouldn't admit it but the thought of thinking of Argon as a deadly killer was both nonsense and terrifying, especially when he possessed the skills of the most hardened war veteran he had ever seen. "Speaking of which, why hasn't the foolish imp made it down here already? Surely it doesn't take that long to dispose of a pair of Royal Sentinels"

The goddess nodded in agreement with his sentiments. Argon was known for being as efficient and quick on the battlefield, despite his childish disposition. When thinking about how strong he had become since their first visit to the main hall of the castle, there had been considerable growth on both their parts but especially Argon's. Thinking logically for a second, it shouldn't have taken him more than a few minutes to defeat those Sentinels that had previously given them trouble before. The worry pooling in her gut increased as she looked at Havel to calm her nerves.

_Just relax, everything should be fine, nothing to worry about… Look at Sir Havel, he's calmer than a rock, well… if a rock could be anything but inanimate, he would certainly be calmer than it. Let's take a breath. Argon is just fine, there's nothing to worry abo-_

"He's not here because of fog door." Borgus answered their unanswered question nonchalantly as he began to tap the sword resting on his tiny anvil back into shape.

Priscilla froze as she and Havel immediately turned their eyes to the door they had entered through a few long minutes ago. Whilst Havel hadn't had much of a chance to experience what those fog doors meant, she did. The same door had been present outside of the dome she had once lived in when in the Painted World; what's more, when she had been invaded by interloping undead and Darkwraith's that very fog had trapped her in more than a few buildings many times before.

"Borgus," Havel started, "How long has that fog been there?" He wasn't that knowledgeable when it came to these partitions due to never experiencing them beforehand. If he took the advice of both his companions, however, the reason of that fog blocking their way back up could only spell trouble. His friend's next words would determine just how severe their situation would become.

Borgus shrugged, not looking at him as he replied. "Since you took the last step on the stairwell."

Without waiting for Havel, Priscilla darted up the stairs, her claws digging into the varnished wood railing, scoring deep scratches into it as she desperately raced towards the fog door. Having that blinding vapour obscure a door not previously blocked could only mean one of two things; there was either a strong entity on the other side that Argon was currently battling, or something had just invaded the warded castle of Anor Londo. Either reason was a problem for her as the worry settled in her stomach like a sack of coins exploded into a flurry of burning metal. With desperation on her heart, she began clawing at the fog, trying to force herself through.

She should have ignored Sir Havel's request to let Argon blow off steam, she should have remained by his side. Now because of both their negligence their comrade was facing battle against something terrible all alone. She didn't doubt his ability to handle things himself – he had braved most of Lordran on his own after all – but something inside her just didn't feel right. Call it her intuition or a blind guess but it felt like he wasn't managing too well on the other side of that door, like he was facing something far greater than a mere enemy.

Her mind immediately flashed to the previous night when Argon had been writhing in pain due to the abyss corrupting his body and her eye's widened. As Havel finally reached her at the foot of the stairs, she drew her scythe from behind her back and hacked at the fog with greater urgency.

He had looked paler than usual after than night and he hadn't acted like himself despite his perfect façade. She worried that he would be weaker now that he had been forced to endure such pain already; but what worried her more was the possibility of that corruption spreading as he was engaged in battle. She had seen it feed off his negative emotions before and hadn't liked the persona he had assumed afterwards. If it began to spread as he fought, he would not only be at a disadvantage due to the pain, but he could also change to the primal instincts he possessed when he had faced all those painting guardians.

Of course, she wasn't definite that it would happen at all, she understood the strength of her closest friend more than anything else, so she knew he would find a way to come out on top. She just hoped with all her heart that he wasn't a changed man when the fog on this door cleared. But she trusted Argon whole-heartedly, he had fought many difficult battles before and the abyss hadn't spread at all.

She slowly lowered her scythe from the door when she realized slicing at it with her Life-Hunt wasn't doing a thing to help.

Maybe she was just over-thinking things as usual. She always did that when there were odd occurrences that seemed unfavourable, Argon was probably just fine on the other side and she was worrying for nothing. Yes, that was right, it was just her imagination.

Priscilla sighed as Havel placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, doing his best to calm her down despite his own sense of worry. For undeads sake, she hoped her over-reaction was all it was; another procrastinated figment of her imagination.

_Please be safe, Argon…_

* * *

Hearing the wind speak had just been one of the Darkwraith's connections to nature. In fact, this had been the first time he had had the chance to communicate with the cool breeze. Of course, if anyone would bother to stop and listen to his nonsensical ramblings, they would call him a mad man, insane; a complete nut-job. Honestly… they wouldn't be very far from the truth.

Whether they believed him or not, his ability to commune with Mother Nature was second to none. What most people would mistake for leaves falling off a tree, he would take it as a sign that death would begin to crowd an area. Where the water rippled outward suddenly despite there being no rain, most would think it to be some fish bobbing near a lakes surface. He would come to understand that the butterfly effect would begin with some nobody's stupid mishap. And of course, when the wind began to whistle spontaneously, and people would think the higher altitude of the mountain was the cause; he would link it to the understanding that what he had been waiting for had finally arrived.

It was an odd skill for an odder person, he agreed. Yet, it was something no hunter could attest to wielding, no ranger of the forests could compare to understanding; and certainly, no half-dressed Deprived man or woman could comprehend. These skills had been breathed into him long ago, before the descent into his ouroboros**1** had begun.

Thinking illogically, after seeing his significant other and analysing the extent of the corruption slowly eating his body, Lithecore had expected this sooner than expected turn of events. Although the spread of the abyss on a person's body usually took less than a full minute to completely overtake them, _this_ strain of putrid mutation had decided to take its sweet time. Not that he was complaining, if anything he _wanted_ to remain as… situationally normal as he could. It wouldn't do to become like the failed Knight in that coliseum, now would it? Not that it really mattered, he knew his mind would be affected in the slightest should the corruption grow any further; Lithecore was already _insane_ after all. What more could some purple muck possibly do to infect an already rotten consciousness? If he were to think about the black veins covering the left side of his body, however, he had to say that their so-called 'negative effects' certainly helped him to attain a clearer psyche when it was needed, and the occasional boost to his strength should he feel like exercising some primeval curse that was too old to stand on its own liquidy feet.

Even so, the time had come to _finally_ meet with his Yin-half. It didn't matter if he had to disobey his commander that went googly-eyes for a crippled half-spider, or if it required him to kill the tall snake with smashed meaty peckers for a moustache; nothing would stop him from witnessing the sprouting of the seeds he had unconsciously planted way back. He could care less what Kirk thought, the man was just as guilty as he was for joining the Darkwraith's because of the perks the covenant availed. Besides… he wasn't going to be considered as an absconder if he was just _surveying_ the merchandise they all sought after.

Lithecore walked around the upper floor of the main hall in his phantasmic body as he thought about the first day he had joined up with Kaathe. It had been an amusing situation seeing a serpent with humanoid teeth and a velvety voice that could charm the leggings off a stoic Knight of Gwyn. The amusement had only grown when he had been asked to duel the human thicket as his initiation. Seeing the legendary Knight of Thorns surrender to his sword had been mildly satisfying.

What interested the wraith more than anything else, thought, was Kaathe's obsession with an undead that had evaded capture by Commander Kirk not once, but _frequently_. At first, Lithecore had just guessed that the undead was a crafty sorcerer of sorts but after receiving a proper description of him by a one of his subordinates, he had laughed like it was the funniest joke he had ever been told.

Who would have guessed that the target of both Kaathe and himself would intersect?

Still, the snake's perception of the masked undead was quite poor. He had _first_ seen the bigger picture by looking at Argon as a candidate to be inducted into the wraiths. That avenue would have ensured a steady flow of humanity for the greedy serpent that smelt like bloated-corpse in an arid desert and would have made Lithecore's mission easier by over three-hundred and four steps of his plan – he had taken the time to count. However, after his gorgeous body double had created a humorous stir in the drenched city of rot and no sunlight by putting Kaathe's 'best soldier' to shame, his mind had turned to killing him instead. It was truly disappointing of the cunning creature. Really, for all the thing's grand planning to wipe out all humanity in the world – Lithecore had earned the right to be privy to that bit of information – he couldn't understand the value certain souls possessed if left in their flesh-suites.

Lithecore supposed the snake didn't understand the major flaw in his agonized plan. It wasn't like it was easy to see but as the creator of such a devastating move on the Great Lords and life itself, that was just pathetic. For one, there wasn't nearly enough manpower to get the job done before the Flame faded. Even if Kaathe worked his wraiths to their hollowed forms he would never see proper results, his followers were just too _weak_ to get anything done right. The second part was that trying to sway the mind of the Chosen Undead yourself when he came to New Londo was a wasted affair. It didn't matter whether the Chosen One was Lithecore's identical twin or another nobody, the window to influence the mighty undeads decision had already been claimed by the gods of Lordran. They had managed to do so even before the Chosen Undead was undead to begin with, anyone could see that. That was the authority these worthless and deceased 'gods' possessed.

Still, if the serpent and his _many_ brethren had decided to put their collective pea-brains together and think outside of the abyssal encapsulation, the idea to slowly use their greatest weapon to change the undeads mind would have come up as an idea. And what was their greatest weapon, one might ask? Simple, the abyss these Great Lords were so damned afraid of it was hilarious.

Unfortunately, his 'master', as Kirk put it, didn't manage to come to that conclusion. That was why you couldn't send a snake to do a human's job, the filthy beasts had no hands for starters; how would they be able to shove their opinions down the Chosen One's open gullet? Poor giant primordial snakes and their lack of knowledge on the human mind. Reptilians were really the worst species to dominate the world, now he understood why the Lord's killed the Everlasting Dragons… once they initiated change everything would lose its lustre and turn neutral. Who wanted that monochrome existence? Then again, it was a good thing the snake was the progenitor of this scheme to create the 'Age of Man'. However stupid their myopic thinking was, it wouldn't get in the way of Lithecore's own plans.

**"Mark the words of mineself, Gwyndolin! Thou shalt not go unpunished!"**

Another smiled broke Lithecore's pale features as he crouched down to gaze at the battle before him. It had started off pretty well too. The questions that the fem-boy couldn't answer, the rage coming from so much absurdity against his maddened twin's existence that he found no other route than to create a wrathful catharsis**2**; and let's not forget the trash-talk to rile up the Darkmoon god. That always raised the stakes of any battle no matter how noble or honourable it seemed.

The wraith had been extremely pleased to see the undeads _true_ colours shine through. The wind hadn't been mistaken and he was glad he had the opportunity to see what the man possessed when in this uncontrollable inferno. He had watched patiently from the wings of the hall, observing as Argon absorbed every hit, soul spear, golden dart and occasional snake bite in his path of carnage. The man was almost identical to Artorias in the way in which he fought, uncaring of the wounds he received. It was interesting to see him fight with such reckless abandon without armour, that was the way of the League after all. Whether Argon didn't know and was doing it subconsciously or the memories that must have flooded his negative thoughts after the abyssal curse had spread had showed it to him; one thing was clear to Lithecore, his Yin-half had _finally _awoken.

Of course, this sudden surge of uncharacteristic behaviour had its flaws. The undead was going on and on about this sinner and that. While it wasn't a problem, he resembled a certain someone a bit too much. He would go as far as to say Argon was acting like some crazed fanatic. He needed to chill a bit and be more like _him._ The wraith also had the same ideals, every Lithecore did, however, what separated _them_ from the _others_ back then had been the deep-seated rebellion etched into their very hearts.

The need to be like the crowd was over-rated, stale tradition. Lithecore was more blasé, calm and calculating rather than loud and commanding. There was nothing wrong with following an order you truly believed in like some cultist infested with fleas. But following _blindly_ was just the mistake the majority made on a daily basis out of a need to belong. For one to truly emerge from student to master, they needed to possess their own perspectives on life while still keeping the ideals instilled into their minds like commandments. _That_ was the reason he and the undead battling Gwyndolin were apart from the crowd. They possessed something everyone else didn't; the common sense to evolve an ideal into a part of society.

As he looked at the Chosen Undead, that common sense wasn't present in the slightest. But he needn't worry about that, this expulsion of rage were mere fumes anyways. Argon's grand awakening wouldn't be enough to jump-start his memories, Lithecore knew that. What he was seeing right now was just a sample of the man's potential as he revelled in the euphoria of being awake for the first time.

The toe-curling _epiphany _that broke his mind from being shrouded by the lies these false gods raised.

For now, he would watch as his right side stewed in the reality of the situation, utilized the teachings burned into his mind with a hot poker and slay this worthless child of illusions. Only then would he be _ready_ to reclaim his seat on the _throne_. Only then would Argon be ready to face his _true_ destiny; to actualise the League's goal.

Lithecore would simply watch this fight play out. If he could survive this far being infamous amongst the Darkwraith's then he was strong enough to kill one broken-minded deity. A simple task for the Lord of the Lithecore.

* * *

Despite his previous attack possessing more than its usual amount of concentrated power, the undead had run into it without a care in the world. He had watched as that wicked smile of his grew, splitting the edges of his mouth, before he had lifted a small talisman and channelled his magic through it. To say the Darkmoon Lord had been surprised when a shockwave of magic had rebounded a few dozen soul spears from ripping Argon apart had been an understatement. He hadn't expected such magic to do that well against regular opponents due to its non-lethal capabilities, never mind blocking against actual _magic_ in return.

The shock didn't last long, however, and the god recovered in time to see the undead sprinting towards another pillar for cover. The remaining balls of soul energy were potent in their capacity, he had made sure of that. If more than two struck him, this fight would be over… and perhaps then Argon would be more docile so that he could understand the gods point of view – even if it didn't justify his actions. Although, Gwyndolin wasn't holding his breath. If this crazed undead was even half the champion he had known, he might just survive this assault. It was a thought he sighed at yet cursed at the same time.

Argon dived behind the pillar just as another torrent of blaming blue balls hit the area he was just standing in, ripping apart the ornate tiles like uprooting a tall tree. As the undead regained his breath, he lifted the same talisman and kneeled as the remaining homing missiles struck the other end of the pillar. There were surges of azure energy flaring on either side of the pillar, licking Argon's bare shoulders as he concentrated. He heard the monolithic piece of architecture crack under the barrage of such a mighty force as a glowing white enveloped his tainted body, making his pale skin shimmer as he rose once again, a maniacal cackle leaving his lips.

He turned as the pillars durability was compromised and dashed to the side, his sword to his side as he ran low towards Gwyndolin. The last few orbs of the gods spell that were still drifting through the air like lazy clouds caught sight of the undead before speeding to meet him. As he neared the god he did the most surprising thing by swiping at one of the balls of energy with his sword.

Gwyndolin widened his eyes in shock. Not because the mentally shattered undead had chosen to openly kill himself but because he had intentionally opted to strike that ball whilst standing no more than a foot away from the god himself. The Darkmoon Lord watched, almost in slow motion as Argon's blade cut through the blue orb, breaking its protective shell before it exploded outward, catching both the undead and Gwyndolin in the blast.

The snakes at the god's feet hissed madly as magical shrapnel stabbed into them like burning glass. The god uttered a shout as he used his sceptre to swat away the sparks speeding towards his upper body. He gazed back at Argon and saw the undeads right side bleeding freely, a sadistic smile on his face that his plan had worked. Unfortunately, he forgot to account for the other remaining balls of energy as they struck his chest, shoulder and waist in rapid succession.

_BOOM!_

_BOOM!_

**_BOOM!_ **

Gwyndolin covered his face as the glare of that much soul energy blinded him. That had been a spell he had never used before since he had never had the need to create many offensive spells. Now that he was in an actual battle after so many centuries, he realized two things; the need to expand his arsenal with spells, and the focus he required not to make them so lethal. He had destroyed an entire section of the Great Hall just with that one attack. He knew he could always repair it but the point was that spell had been reckless.

"Ha… that packed a punch."

Gwyndolin snapped his head back to the spot his magic had just hit to see the source of his current pain still alive and kicking, albeit limping, as Argon offered a lopsided grin with more blood pouring down his body into a small puddle. He had assumed that attack would have ripped the undead to pieces after what it had done to the hall itself. the god narrowed his covered eyes on the Chosen Undead and saw a faint sheen of white across his skin. With a huff, Gwyndolin raised his sceptre yet again.

**_Such tenacity encapsulated inside a form of contradiction… It's almost humorous._ **

Argon raised his good arm to grab at his belt. He lifted an emerald flask swirling with an amber liquid to lips and took a long sip. Almost immediately, his wounds, bruises and broken bones began to reset, knitting together the ripped skin of his mouth before he sighed out in bliss. The Lord of the Darkmoon merely grunted in annoyance, he should have taken a few of those talismans Allfather Lloyd had created when he had the chance. He had forgotten just how annoying it was to fight an intelligent undead in a duel.

"That was fun…" Argon mused as he put away the flask and looked at the god. His smile wasn't present anymore like it all the other times. Instead his mouth formed a thin line, his face passive as he continued to stare at Gwyndolin with cold, multi-coloured eyes. The atmosphere in the room shifted and suddenly Gwyndolin felt like what was to come was the _real_ battle.

He straightened his spine and drew a small, golden bow resting across his back. If Argon wanted to finally take this seriously, it was only fair that he did too. This game of hide and seek had gone on for too long anyway.

Gwyndolin's right hand let go of the sceptre he was holding, and it began to float in mid-air as he pulled back the silken bowstring of his new weapon. In what seemed like another illusion, a long, elegant arrow coloured golden with a spiralled head appeared against the bow, prompting the god to gently grasp it and place the end against the shinning string.

Argon, likewise, discarded his sword against the floor. The blade made a loud clatter against the ruptured floor, as if complaining to being thrown away so unceremoniously. The undead took no notice of it, however, as he lifted up his arms, fingers splayed outwards; before a bone-white spear, smeared with blood at its grotesque tip flashed into his awaiting hands. He grasped the light spear and twirled it before grabbing the end with his right hand and crouching as low as he could, cocking back the arm and levelling a calm gaze at Gwyndolin.

"How about I kill you for real now?"

This time, it was the Darkmoon Lord that smiled, tensing his right arm ever so slightly as the drawstring quivered. **"Thou may attempt it."**

Time seemed to still as the two squared off, waiting for the other to even twitch the wrong way. The wind that usually whistled through the empty corridors was quiet as of late, and the rays of sunlight falling upon them from the glass ceiling above felt neither cold nor warm on their shoulders. Not even Gwyndolin's snakes made a sound as he and his champion kept a stiff gaze.

There was only silence…

And then there was movement.

With a great show of strength and agility, Argon launched himself forward like the Dragonslayer arrows he used so much, feet off the ground as the tip of his spear speeding towards its target like a javelin. Simultaneously, Gwyndolin released the hold on his moonlight arrow and watched it cut through the thick air, spinning wildly as it approached the forehead of the Chosen Undead.

Argon chose leaned his head to the side as he neared the god and felt the arrow draw a line across his cheek as it sailed by. He grinned in triumph but was unprepared for the arrow's brethren following close behind. Before the undeads Demon Spear could even touch a scale of the snakes below Gwyndolin, he was sent hurling back, four arrows piercing through him like a hot knife through butter. As Argon hit the floor with a loud gasp, he noticed circular holes dotting his bare upper half and looked back to see four bloodied arrows clattering against the floor, their momentum disrupted after striking him.

With a grim look, Argon stood back up. The sinner's strength was more than he originally bargained for; for one they had all gone _through_ him instead of staying inside his skin like clingy leeches. He readied his spear again as his foe pulled back the drawstring of that bow again, a fresh arrow set against the glinting gold.

_So he fires those arrows just like his darts, eh? Interesting…_

Gwyndolin stared back at the undead indifferently. It was the first time he had been forced to resort to using his bow in battle. He admitted he hadn't really been in many battles and those he _had_ hadn't required him to use more than a simple soul arrow; but this would be the first that honestly challenged him to exert himself.

Despite the fact that he had been wounded multiple times by his champion due to his own insecurities and because Argon was just a slippery foe when in this corrupted rage; the god actually found himself a little bit exerted from the use of consecutive spell-casts. Usually using that much magical energy was child's play for him, but after he had been forced to drop the invasion wards he possessed over the castle due to his haywire emotions, endure both physical and mental warfare with his own champion _and_ understand that he had to tell him the truth about his plans, he admitted to feeling quite worn out.

Even so, with his snakes bleeding as they may be, he wouldn't back down, he couldn't. This was the one chance he had to fix his mistake, to prevent the loss of the first and _only_ undead to ever make it this far to be called the Chosen Undead. But more so, because he wished to save the life of a soul suffering because of his actions. His father didn't have a choice but to link the Flame himself, causing temporary peace for Lordran yet also damning humanity to this curse of madness. It was only to save his kingdom after all.

Likewise, Gwyndolin hadn't had a choice but to create this 'Undead Quest', formulate lies to keep the undead on the path of the gods, use his power to disillusion the Chosen Undead into thinking that the Shinning City and its glorious sun still inspired hope. He hadn't had the choice but to take over Velka's covenant, blurring the truth so that further rebellions against divinity would cease.

He knew the choices he made were inhumane – part of the reason he sought to possess the free will of those tiny sprites – but he hadn't had the choice but to be merciless as his role of the current rule of Lordran demanded it. It didn't matter whether his heart was shattered again and again at every false move, bias action and blasphemous word he spoke, what mattered was what the works of his hands had done. And they were covered in sins that were darker than Nito's resting place. He could never undo them, he would always remember them… always mourn for the lack of personal choice he possessed.

But that didn't mean he wasn't sick of it.

He had lived in the shadow of his father and siblings; carrying each of the weighty burdens they left behind on his slender shoulders, the last god that most people didn't even care about. He had been forced to make decisions that weren't of his own opinion, swayed by a snake that called itself the throne's trusted advisor but secretly saw him as little more than scraps compared to his father. And of course, he had been forced to watch his family be imprisoned as he stood by helplessly. It was a pitiful sight indeed; the strongest god of magic unable to save even one member of his lost family to an accursed _painting_.

But it would all end here. He would stop allowing his life to be used like some puppet, prevent these unseen forces from toying with his emotions. So what if he didn't possess free will? He would just have to _create_ it, it wouldn't difficult compared to his reconstruction of Anor Londo. Who cared if he was the failed son of his mighty father? He would shatter those expectations and find his own path. His father and siblings were gone now anyways, what use was old tradition now that there was no one but him left to even remember it? He was tired of this asphyxiation**3** that clouded his thoughts with 'what-ifs' and 'what would so and so do'. Whether Frampt, Velka or whatever force was out there to deny him liked it, he was the current ruler of Lordran, and he would do things _his _way.

This feeling of pain whenever he looked at the mistake he maid was unbearable now. He couldn't stand to see the people around him suffer; he _wouldn't_ allow innocent lives like the undead in the lower levels, Priscilla, members of his covenant, the remaining Knights of his father, the painting guardians, or Argon suffer anymore.

As Gwyndolin refocused on the wild undead before him, a sad look cross his features. It was going to hurt killing the person he believed in the most to save this damned world, but he was prepared to do it. He was the King of Lordran after all.

For once in the god's long life, a scintillant**4** trace of hope settled in the pit of his churning stomach, somewhat easing the pressure of what he had to do. It was almost as if he possessed that sliver of humanity he craved so much.

And so the Lord of the Darkmoon fired his arrows at his champion, determined to reclaimed that which he had allowed himself to lose.

* * *

**Lovely Ladies and Gregarious Gents, please hold all reviews for this battle until the end of Chapter 17. What's the reason you say? Well, I'm glad you asked. This fight was only meant to be one chapter in length, however, I've broken it up into a trio of chapters (i.e. Chapter 15-17). After witnessing the word count and climbing climax, you can understand why I chose to break it up, yes?**

**But never fear, for I have posted not one but TWO gloriously long chapters for you to devour with your eyes today! (or is it night time by you? Time zones can really mess up certain goodbye's, huh?)**

* * *

**Word Bank:**

1\. **_Ouroboros _– (n.) an ancient symbol depicting a serpent or dragon devouring its own tail. The action demonstrates an endless cycle or Infinity.**

**A Greek word translated as: _"tail-devouring snake"._ **

2\. **_Catharsis_ – (n.) the purging or release of emotional tensions [via types of art, music, etc].**

**Pronounced as: "_kuh-_thar-sis".**

3\. **_Asphyxiation/Asphyxia _– (n.) a condition caused by interference with respiration, or due to lack of O2 (i.e. suffocation).**

**A Greek word literally meaning: _"pulse-less-ness or absence of pulsation"_.**

4\. **_Scintillant/Scintilla_ – (n.) a tiny, brilliant flash or spark; a small thing; barely visible trace.**

* * *

**I used a few theories involving Velka, tied them up with a notched whip and placed prism stones at the base to add effect. Hope they sound believable for vague speculations.**

**I may have rushed the 'great epiphany' Gwyndolin would soon acquire but I'll leave that for all of you to decide.**

**As for the question about the eventuality of this epic battle, Argon's abyssal buff and other stuff… I'll explain that in the a/u of Chapter 17 after the content itself covers some of your concerns.**

**Get ready, you don't have to wait for the next chapter this time. Yay! :D**

**Now, please turn over…**


	17. Chapter 17

**Just a quick one: its really awesome how so many of you have literally read my mind at the outcomes of this particular arc (can I call it an arc?). Perhaps I'm too predictable in my plot twists? Bah! I'm an optimist, I'll peg it to all of you just being extremely perceptive. Either way, you people are amazing!**

* * *

If the insane undead had been surprised by the sudden change in Gwyndolin, he didn't show it. It would be more accurate to say that Argon didn't show anything besides that wide smile and maniacal gleam in his multicoloured eyes. He had allowed himself to be peppered with a few more arrows the god shot his way, but he just kept coming back. The Darkmoon Lord pegged the resistance to such pain as adrenaline blocking the worst of his wounds but then again he had to argue that Argon was naturally resistant to pain, he had seen as much when he fought the Silver Knights dotted around the castle for the first time.

Nevertheless, if he expected Gwyndolin to seem stunned or possess a reaction, he was sorely mistaken. The time for these childish games had ended now that the god had shut out his emotions; all that remained now was the pure, unadulterated ferocity of the son of Gwyn, the Lord of the Darkmoon.

Argon changed his approach by leaping into the air at Gwyndolin, his Demon Spear pulled back to deliver a strong thrust into his unarmoured side. The god saw the stored-up lighting begin to crackle at the jagged tip of the pale spear as it lowered towards him. He raised his sceptre lazily as the undead entered his personal bubble before flicking his wrist. This time his champion showed more than that exasperating grin as he was knocked to the ground with force befitting of a Taurus Demon.

The undeads body lifted off the ground due to the force slightly before two large snakes cracked his disfigured face into the ivory tiles, sinking their fangs into him. As he gasped from the mix of pain Gwyndolin knocked another moonlight arrow against the shaft of his bow and fired. The undead, however, reacted as the arrow was released and cocked his head sideways, narrowly dodging the arrow that cut the other side of his face with another red whisker mark.

His grin was replaced with a snarl as he fought against the massive reptiles biting into him, rose to one knee, drew a throwing knife from his pouch and hurled it at his foe. Gwyndolin merely used his sceptre to knock the insignificant blade away from him whilst sweeping his other arm in a wide arc. Argon's eyes widened as his stationary form was pierced with multiple golden darts the length of his forearm before spewing out a mouthful of blood. Whilst he was temporarily immobile Gwyndolin took the opportunity to retract both of his snakes before swatting him backwards with a soul arrow. The god watched impassively as his champion careened through the air before crashing to the floor in a wet heap.

He hadn't wanted things to end up like this. If things had gone his way, he could have lived with the knowledge that the first human he placed so much trust and belief in despite not having much for himself, had saved him and the undead cursed to go die ad infinitum or until they turned hollow. If things had went his way, his niece which he had mourned like a widow for would have been freed and happily treated like the royalty she actually was. If he, the isolated child of Gwyn; the last born that was not shunned out of disdain but ignored due to the crises afflicting his father's home had been given but _one_ chance during his genesis; there would never have been a great collapse in the first place. He would have found a better solution than sacrificing his father's life, Artorias' future and his sister's integrity. If he had had it his way from the beginning, there would be no need for an innocent undead to take the unwanted torch and risk his soul for a kingdom he had never visited.

But things hadn't gone his way, they never truly did. If anything, life seemed to play this cruel game on him time and time again; proving his worthlessness by taking another person from his life that he considered precious, ripping his heart in pieces with each new ounce of loneliness and responsibility replaced in their stead.

He had been forever damned to suffer in the silence of the castle he never wanted to rule, fight against foe's he considered friends and lie to race he never wanted to get involved. He really was as pitiful as those blasphemous cultists described him as.

Even so, he was _still_ Gwyndolin, the Lord of the Darkmoon and the current King of Anor Londo. Fate could bash his aspirations and dreams into the cold ground all it wanted, Velka could try and continue to toy with his already exhausted mind – if she was even still alive to begin with – and the world could tell him he was the failed image of his proud father. All that didn't matter. Not when he possessed this throbbing determination to rewrite everything, change the unchangeable, overwrite the mistakes of his predecessors. He would suffer, cry, mourn and face damnation if he had to; _nothing_ would stop him from doing what he wished deep within his heart anymore.

As twisted as Argon's words had been when he had arrived, their aim had been true when they had pierced realization within him. Those words of malicious intent had opened his eyes despite the implications they possessed. He understood now that he had been wrong to assume that he was trapped by other people's expectations. Whilst the thought was blasphemous, he entertained the idea of him being nothing more than an ordinary mortal being with immortal power and strength. Even if the idea was flawed in many ways, one thing was certain; as a being that still possessed the ability to die, he also possessed the ability to truly live.

And not just breathe as a form of existence, but exercise that which he had sought from his balcony like a rebellious heir, the freedom of _choice._ He had been a fool for not realizing it sooner when his people needed him to act. This aching in his chest, this determination bubbling inside of him, forcing him to fight to his full potential wasn't just some divine inspiration; it was his free will speaking. It had laid dormant in his body for so long, gathering the potential energy over the centuries _waiting_ for him to understand that he was not a puppet controlled by this sadistic performance fate played. He had been lustful, yearning for the humanity lesser beings possessed; not realizing that he was slowly pregnating the greater willpower inside of him for the moment it was truly needed.

He was no longer the god that allowed life to take the things he worked so hard for from him. No, this time he would fight tooth and nail for what was his, putting his life on the line because he was sick of letting go when the only thing he had ever wanted was to _hold on_.

Likewise, he would prove to the forces that had once taunted him into submission that he was stronger, better, wiser. He would use the power birthed within him to do more than his beloved father had… more than even his sibling's combined efforts had availed! Because he was the lastborn of a great bloodline. Born at the time of a mystic moon, he would show everyone just what it meant to be the Darkmoon Lord, the personification of power.

He would show his champion, his Chosen Undead what it truly meant to be a 'mortal being with a greater soul'. He would erase that pathetic virus affecting the human he placed so much trust in and make an example of him by proving to the fractured undead just what he could do when pushed. Furthermore, he would _save_ this suffering soul from its own destruction, not because Argon was necessary in his plan to save Lordran, but because he was another precious life the god held dear.

Argon groaned as he rose to his feet shakily, sipping more liquid flame from his flask before running towards him again. His earlier wounds healed in a matter of seconds as he drew two short swords from thin air seemingly. Gwyndolin remained stationary, observing the undead as he neared him, twisting his body abnormally from another snake bite before he stabbed the reptile in the throat, pinning it to the ground. The god's mouth twitched from the pain as another snake bit into the undeads shoulder, making him shout out and stab his other sword into its eye. When the snake didn't let up on its attack, Argon ignored it and cocked back his right hand, curling his fingers into a fist as another snake sped towards him. When it was about to sink its fangs into his head Argon delivered a lightning fast punch to its jaw. A distinct _crack_ was heard as the reptile's bones dislocated from their sockets and a small blast of fire erupted against the animal's scales.

The god raised a curious eyebrow as he noticed the set of braces suddenly adorning his champions knuckles before he dismissed him with another strike from his sceptre. Argon saw it coming and attempted to divert the attack onto the snake biting him, but it retracted just as soon as the Darkmoon Lord raised his hand. The undead braced his arms against his side as the sceptre cracked against it, breaking newly repaired bones as Argon flew into a nearby pillar. His stare was blank as more crimson fluid decorated his ivory halls like some terrible rendition of modern art.

As the undead wheezed through bruised lungs, Gwyndolin prepared another volley of the concentrated soul spears he had cast minutes ago. He wasn't afraid to kill his champion anymore, whether his heart still broke due to his foolish actions or not. Now was the time for change, rebirth, retribution against the idle persona he had taken up when everyone had left him behind.

He reasoned that killing Argon and making him revive at a bonfire would be a quick way to pacify this bipolar rage at least. He was pushing it by placing all his trust in such a plain tactic, but it was the only solution at the moment, he needed to save the undeads mind before it was taken over by the abyss plaguing his thoughts; and fast.

He just hoped his relentless assault would be enough to at least break the undeads drive. If he lacked the initiative to fight due to understanding the differences in their power, he might be coaxed into surrendering. It was another long shot, but he had no choice but to throw his champion around like a ragdoll. He steeled himself as Argon rose, wiping the blood dribbling down his chin, his singular amber orb glowing with fury.

Or perhaps this unfavourable battle would just anger the undead further. Things were never ever set in stone when it came to his luck, was it?

* * *

The seriousness of the current situation was like the ecstasy Argon had been craving since his journey into glorious madness. It had been fun playing around with the tall sinner with snake legs that smelt like sweet oil while it had lasted, landing a cut here and uttering a taunt there. The mental warfare had become his favourite pass time and for a moment he wondered why he hadn't allowed himself to let go of that pitiful passive persona from the beginning.

Oh yes, he remembered now… after his imprisonment for who knows how long his freshly undead mind had seen it fit to 'reform' into something less _him,_ in an effort to seal away his humanly terror. It had been a nice train of thought, he had to admit, it was just a shame that train had capsized and been ripped to shreds by the momentum it carried after he had stumbled across this desolate land of the dead.

_Undead_, he corrected himself. That was the term that was used nowadays. At first, the people living normal lives had called those afflicted with the curse ghouls or monsters, hiding behind ordinary city garrisons as their families that had been turned were slaughtered without remorse and sent to an asylum that would be able to hold their undying visages. He had to argue of who was the real monster at that point in time; the cursed humans damned in leathery skin or the fat citizens chucking stones at the very people they had considered their parents, lovers and lords not three days prior.

And he had seen it right to make himself reform to the same mindset of _those_ vermin? How pathetic.

Yet he had found it hard to break the shell of that determination once it had encased his psyche in a membrane of hypocrisy. He had 'turned over a new leaf', as it were when he had spent years trapped in that small cell with only infected rats and pestilence for company. It was shame, knowing that all he stood for as a killing machine would be tamed by simple isolation.

It was so hilarious that it almost made him cry. Or he would have if the arrows passing through his body hadn't broken his thoughts with strength befitting a giant boar. Really, for that slender body, the snake-man carried some power in those manicured fingers.

Which brought him back to his main topic; administering the ideal punishment for an advent of sacrilege. He had never faced a false god before in his life. His only views towards the topic was that if was this euphoric to fight one, it _must_ be heavenly to kill one. That alone spurred him on to fight until the exhaustion he felt from all this bodily harm was erased by his burning elation.

In truth, fighting for some reason hadn't felt as good as it did right now. He felt tired, _exhausted_, yet he still possessed the breath to continue standing. He wanted to collapse from being inflicted by so many wounds, but his body just screamed for him to draw more weapons and let the battle continue. What's more he also felt invincible at the same time, as if he possessed all the strength in the world. He had assumed that it was all because of his bloodlust but knew better. It had to be something else increasing his durability and physical prowess ten-fold. If it wasn't the adrenaline running through his vein's then it had to be this strange aura swirling around in his mind.

After claiming his prize from the ugly reprobate in that silhouetted world he had been hearing whisperings from voices that certainly weren't his own. They had encouraged him, fuelled the hunger inside of him to rip, tear and hack at anything and _everything_ around him that contained even a sliver of existence, the leftover blood of those shiny sentinels were enough proof.

Whilst those voices were mildly intriguing, he found it amusing that they attempted to try and lead his already broken thoughts towards a direction they saw as necessary. Their pleas for utter destruction he could entertain, when in the land of sinners, do as they do; obliterate their enemy cults and molest their young with mind-numbing torture. The need to devour everything due to some ravenous craving, however? That wasn't his style. He didn't need to devour everything, just the ne'er-do-wells that thought they actually stood a chance of ascension with their questionable faith. Argon glanced at Gwyndolin as he continued his assault.

That reminded him, this particular protestant's progression from meek defence to all-out ferocity was starting to get interesting. He had just assumed the man – or was he a lady with that cute face and rounded chest – possessed a poor arsenal with all that scrambling and spell casting. He had to admit, the fellow's magic hit hard, his darts and physical blows even more so. They hurt so bad he was beginning to get slightly aroused.

Pain was more a reward to him than a foolish mistake. Whilst his jolly personality had seen it fit to cringe and grunt at every nick and stab he received, every wound actually felt like more of a pleasantry. The blood dribbling down his body didn't matter just so long as the thrill of battle was there, the piece of knowledge that the only thing standing between you and next person was a sharpened metal tip. Every blow he had sustained so far from the fem-boy had felt like kisses on his skin. The nicks resembling chaste smooches whilst the solid hits a deep lip-lock with tongue; a connection that was absolutely divine.

Although, he had to wonder why all this pain felt so numb to him suddenly. He enjoyed a good thrashing like every same-minded masochist, but this was just odd. Even when he left himself open to receive wounds – because for all his loss of cognitive evaluation he still retained the mind to block, dodge and defend when it was necessary – he couldn't, for the life of him, experience that delicious sense of pain he wanted _so_ much. Perhaps this grotesque black muck on his right side was to blame? Or maybe the god's blows just weren't that hard enough… that really killed his hard-on.

Speaking of arousal, Argon didn't know whether he was meant to feel anything when facing the sinner before him. Whilst the fellow retained some sort of masculinity with that loud voice, he just seemed so… feminine. Call him confused or blind but that nightgown didn't really look like something any male would wear in a hurry. Besides that, were those really _breasts_ on the false god? He couldn't tell since he was too busy being bitten by two snakes.

He reasoned the only way to properly check was to do it the same way you checked if a cute adult grisly was male or female; good old-fashioned peeking. And so, without much hesitation due to not really possessing any morals, Argon dropped into a crouch, his two biting leeches following him as he peered under the mass of slithering serpents beneath that worn gown.

When his eyes saw nothing but more snakes he sighed in disappointment. Oh well, he would just have to dissect the fem-boy himself when all this was over; even if it would only leave him sexually confused for the remainder of the battle.

As he nodded his head in agreement with his twisted thinking, he felt his legs leave the ground and he looked up towards the blank face of Gwyndolin as he was shot once again in the stomach. More blood poured from his lips before he was throwing high into the air, those snakes from before retracting from his shoulder and bicep.

Whilst the blasphemous bigot had forced his heart to speed up by taking this seriously and actually fight back, he had to admit that the treatment he was receiving was rather poor. For one, he hadn't received a smile or snarl thus far. And secondly, after throwing a man into a pillar, injecting venom inside of him that was certainly staring to take affect now that he was kinda woozy, and turning him into a bleeding mess; shouldn't he even receive a _slight_ reaction for all his hard work as some fleshy ragdoll? These self-proclaimed gods and their selfishness really didn't know any bounds.

A loud gasp escaped from his lips as he was struck in the back by what felt like another spell. It was a singular blast with no follow up shots but felt as concentrated as the torrent he had been hit with prior. Again, the blast hurt but not as much as he would have hoped. That is… until the burning began to start up.

In an instant, Argon felt his body light up with pure white agony, and this time it wasn't pleasant. The burn travelled around his back, inserting needles into his spine, his neck, the backs of his legs as he ascended to the glass ceiling above. Whatever this stronger attack was, it was certainly going to be trouble. If he didn't find pleasure from its touch, it was unnecessary like the sinner below him.

Still, even as more of those beautifully designed arrows of Gwyndolin's began to piece his spine and remain lodged in his muscled flesh, he couldn't help but cry out, as if the added force had been too much for his frayed pain receptors to allow. As he reached his apex in the air, time seemed to slow as the burning wrapped around his arms and torso, filling his scarred skin with new distress that rolled his eyes to the back of his head. And then, as soon as it began, it stopped, and time was resumed as he plummeted to the cracked floor with a _splat_.

Before his mind was consumed by the indescribable pain, he caught a fleeting glace of a distant memory, previously locked away by his reformed self while in the asylum. Without thinking, his imaginary hands reached out, closing a black-veined hand around a cold, silver spark that chilled his insides as he was hit with a burst of recollection.

* * *

_Confusion. That had been his first emotion after being named and dressed in the armour he would come to call his uniform. While under his Master's tutelage in that freezing cellar he had died and been reborn in, he recalled never remembering what he had been before being seen and held down by that hunched over man with a cowards personality. He couldn't remember his memories as a babe or his adventures from before his days as a child._

_When he spent nights like this one under the cover of a ruined grey-building towards the south of the Lithecore barracks he questioned whether he even had a name to begin with before Lord Stein had chosen one for him. Come to think of it, he hadn't even questioned the sudden act of good will his Master only ever showed to his oblivious villagers. With all the conflicting thoughts in his already jumbled mind, he hadn't possessed the will to argue the day he had been initiated into the League, as their Commander no less._

_He had been given he title that dubbed him the honoured leader of the League, a title he honestly couldn't fathom for what reason had been gifted to a nameless entity such as himself – one that still failed to blindly obey his Master despite living under his instruction for years on end._

_As the bright moon glowed against his pale face, he took a moment to inhale the fresh air and revel in the wind's monologue as he mulled over his thoughts. He would never be one to completely disobey his Master, even if Lord Stein's methods outside his home were questionable to his obvious sadism. After all that reconditioning – a word he would scoff at in favour of calling it what it really was; sick torture – one would guess that his mind would be made to be like the other 'Cores he would soon lead to battle, but they were all wrong. Personally, he had no issue with his Master's ideals and goals towards this slowly putrefying land of eternal debauchery. The thought of purging these 'Worshipers of White', 'Flames of Flann' and the occasional cultist was an admirable goal to him even if he didn't take Stein's opinions into account. He would go as far as to say that the broad-shouldered man reaffirmed his prior views._

_Even so, understanding and agreeing with ones teachings was one thing, blindly walking into damnation with them without raising your own questions, deliberating your own findings and adapting your shared interpretations in accordance with something considered the proverbial gospel was another thing entirely. His Master could lock him back up in that dilapidated cellar again, cut him until there was nowhere left to cut, inflict as much pain as his already sick mind was capable of thinking up. But he would never be become like the mindless dolls of the League made to walk on hot coals due to the marionette strings attached to them._

_He supposed that was one of the reasons he had been chosen for the position of Lithecore Commander, other than his extraordinary physical prowess and tactical analysis. What was intriguing was the fact that Lord Stein knew all of this, including his subordinate's own views yet he still found it appropriate to place this burden on his shoulders._

_Perhaps he was just trying to limit his movement so that his wayward habits were mellowed out more? He snorted, his Master was smarter than that. If anything, the agathokakological**1 **ruler was probably attempting to breed some new form of discipline into him that no other member of the League would be privy to. Although the man didn't show it due his, well… odd form of communication, he had shown certain signs of – and dare he say it – **care** for his most disobedient shadow._

_He wouldn't be foolish enough to take it at face value, however, he had been under his Lord's wing long enough to understand that the man was anything but caring for his special set of monstrosities… especially an atrocity like him of all people. Yet, the confusion of being called out, blessed with control of the League and **named** by a man he should want to kill but felt no hate toward was overwhelming to say the least. He just couldn't think of where to start from should his brain even consider examining these strange occurrences closer._

_When he had stopped by to pick his Master's brain as to his unusual generosity, all he had received was a smile that looked more menacing than comforting, and words that were more cryptic than explanatory._

_'To be my commander means to be my **right hand**,' his Lord had said, 'and with the gifting of a duty as the **extension** __of my will, you shall no longer be **amorphous**. You came to me a worthless **flesh-sack**; more fitting to eat the sand under my heel, and now you are my sword – **rebellious** as you may be. Thus, I grant you the name **Argon**. For what use is an atrocity, an entity of utter **calamity** if those that are lucky enough to survive it cannot warn others by its name?'_

_He hadn't argued at the new name he suddenly possessed – frankly speaking he couldn't argue for the simple fact that he hadn't **possessed** a name in the first place. His Master had said his name would be the catalyst to strike fear into the sinful brave enough to revolt against his fleshless army, and he had silently agreed with him. He had agreed so much that he had felt a pleasant shiver pass down his spine at that particular moment in time._

_Yet, even in all this confusion he felt, he knew such thoughts were lost to something like him. Covance had once called him and the other 'Cores weapons but when he thought about it carefully, it still didn't seem right. Lord Stein never addressed the League as anything besides the twisted malevolence of his will given corporeal form, but even that description seemed further from the truth than anything else._

_If he were to think on the reason he and those he would soon lead to slaughter the masses were created, why they were unbendable blades in the shadows that possessed no ability to feel pity; he could recall his Master's wise words from long ago. As members of the League, they were taught to be apathetic towards any and all things regarding the world around them, he had said once. 'A collected persona of observing arbiters', if he remembered correctly._

_They were never to show their emotions to anyone, not even themselves. To do so would feed the enemy ammunition when you were most weak, an unforgivable mistake. Still, he had gone against that ruling not a day after it had been spoken; remaining his stoic self when in the presence of his Master but displaying his curious nature in all things after he was granted the directive to depart from the base and create catastrophe._

_That was one of the reasons he knew he was more than a weapon. Weapons didn't feel these gushes of interest in people's reactions. Weapons didn't feel the intense desire to please the Master that had tortured them from years on end. Weapons didn't enjoy slowly examining the dying body of a sinner, their steaming innards as they screamed at him for mercy. And of course, weapons didn't feel this intense pleasure he did when facing greater odds._

_If he thought about it properly he was basically a gist. A fragment of a soul's malevolent emotions, uncontrollable even by the host of said life-form. In battle he was known for his unnatural durability, his never-ending rush of euphoria that made him a wraith on the field, fighting even when whittled down to his last dregs of consciousness. At times it was as if something else took control when he could not, turning his indifferent face into a carnal mask of massacre._

_He remembered the feeling quite well, in fact. It was one of the reasons he was so feared, even by his own monstrous kith. The ability to channel endless rage into power, turn tired muscles into steel with a change in mindset. The trigger for that was always pain. Pure, scalding white anguish that made him want to tear at his hair, bite off his own tongue, fracture his own bones and mangle his own face. **That** pain would awaken something deep inside of him when it ended, something so unworldly that even he was slightly weary of its presence. It was dark, darker than his own thoughts, more calculating perhaps that even Lord Stein, and **hungry** for something he had yet to find._

_Perhaps that was the reason he had been granted a name in the first place? Perhaps his Master had seen his power, recognized his irrationality as his greatest offensive and turned it into a something the League could all gather under one banner. Something that would not only warn the many delectable protestants out there of his arrival but even save them from their self-destruction too?_

_He smiled sinisterly at the thought and looked up to the pearly glow of the moon descending into the horizon, his amber pools glittering under the mystic light._

_It didn't matter what name he had been given or what it meant. He would use it in his shared endeavour to rid this rotting oak of its termites, devour its fleeting sense of security by popping those beliefs these poor primates possessed. For he was more than a weapon, more than just **some** __atrocity, he was a singular anomaly; an **anti-body** against this disease those self-proclaimed deities had spread. He was a miasma to the world's remedy, yet the rising **sun** against the darkness of blasphemous faith. One that would be known for another millennium if that's how long this corrosive land had remaining on its grandfather clock._

_And so, as his confusion gave way to clarity, the infallible Lithecore Commander raised the mask of his indomitability to has face, hiding the face of a rebellious assassin behind that of a fanatical nihilist, a phenomenon none could curb._

_As the sun began to rise, Argon lowered his head, his warped plans for the future already playing out in his compromised imagination; unaware of the small sliver of hope still flickering weakly amidst a whirlwind of destruction._

_A sliver that would soon burst into an awe-inspiring flame._

* * *

Gwyndolin let out a sigh as he dropped the arm holding his bow. Whether he liked to admit it or not – what pride he had from his father somewhat rubbing off on him – that fight had taken a lot out of him. He knew he wasn't unfit or that his magical ability had dwindled over time. As far as he knew you couldn't decrease your magical prowess if you were stretching you limits every _moment_ you kept a grand illusion going. As for his physical strength he was confident that even if he wasn't as muscular as his father and elder brother, he was still quite capable. The mental exhaustion was the issue here because whether his abyssal-corrupted or usual idiotic self, Argon was still very much a hassle to his frayed nerves.

He had been smart to use common taunts as a way to lower the god's guard time and time again and his perfect utilisation of multiple weaponry had taken centre stage, keeping Gwyndolin on his toes – well snakes – from the beginning.

Yet, the outcome of the battle was obvious from who was still left standing. Argon may have been the Chosen Undead, supercharged by his own broken mind and the scourge afflicting his body but he was still no match for a proper god, his skills be damned. Even though there had been close calls, there was no possible way the undead would hope to defeat an opponent immensely stronger than you – and one that possessed centuries of experience no less. Thus, it had been a decided match from the start, the god just hoped he was competent enough to pull his champion back to his senses normally. All that time isolated in the Darkmoon Tomb hadn't done wonders to his people skills, after all.

With a mild whimper, his snakes took him towards Argon at a snail's pace. He was still sore from the cuts, stabs and explosions he'd had to absorb _and_ counter against. For a brief moment he wondered just who had trained the undead to fight so well. Despite his obvious inelegance in combat his moves had been flawless in their execution, unpredictable and dangerous. By any right, he would have been killed long ago by the man if he had been anything less than a child of Gwyn.

As he approached the prone body of his champion, he caught the weak shine of something on the ground and turned to it. Besides Argon's blood painting the floor and his weapons scattered about like a child's toys, there was but a single, clean spot in the centre of the Great Hall, illuminated by a single ray of warm sunshine.

Gwyndolin gazed at the object for a moment before extending one of his serpents to grab it. He stared at it with silent appraisal in his hands. It was such an ordinary thing, possessing neither a trace of magic nor an inkling of protection. In fact, he guessed that if the Chosen Undead had ever left himself open during his travels, this innocuous little piece of him might have been shattered to pieces; similarly, to his once respected personality. With an inaudible huff, the Darkmoon Lord touched the crown covering his brow and it lifted into the air in a gust of magic. With his other hand, he brought the object close and placed his lips to the smooth porcelain of the plain mask, channelling his hope and strength through the point of contact.

The mask gave off a gentle white glow before fading quickly, as if the magic imbued into it had never been there at all. For what seemed like the first time, Gwyndolin showed a large, genuine smile towards the small face covering in his large hands before his turquoise eyes glinted in the quiet room.

His champion was the first undead before the Iron-clad one to draw such hope from him, and the only one to claim his unbroken trust with actions alone. He had watched at the masked man as he crawled, pushed and fought for that which he desired; never once giving in to his own inability but instead choosing to reform himself again and again. With that determination to save a land not his own, undead he shouldn't care for and divinity he didn't hate – or… _hadn't_ hated previously – he deserved all the admiration the god possessed and more. He wished he hadn't asked Ornstein to be the one to judge if he was worthy enough to continue the quest. Perhaps the selfless Knight would have found a companion to fill the void Artorias had left long ago… perhaps if he hadn't forced yet another life to die for his selfish cause things would have been better.

He replaced his crown over his head, covering his teary eyes when he heard something that made his heart stop momentarily. With a cautious gaze, he regarded Argon's bloodied body before he saw his bare chest rise as the undead huffed again.

"Heh heh…"

The god's eyes widened in shock. It was just too good to be true when he had hit his champion with enough force to render him unconscious, nearly _killing_ him so that he could deliver the final blow. To suddenly see the very same undead _laughing_ was like a blow to his face.

He watched on in rapt attention as the undead opened his heterochromatic eyes and offered a weak grin, chuckling to himself all the while.

"Heh heh heh… ha ha- ah…"

Cautiously, the Darkmoon Lord placed the mask he was holding safely into a hidden pocket on his robes before drawing his bow again. He still felt weak, _exhausted_ to the point of his collapse but he calmed his rapidly beating heart and rolled his shoulders. Weak or not, he couldn't back down; not when his opponent showed so much resilience. To present such fatigue before a relentless foe would be an insult to their determination.

The undead began to raise himself up slowly, his body pouring with blood from many wounds as he raised his flask once more. Gwyndolin cursed under his breath and an arrow instantly materialised into his hand, he should have destroyed that accursed bottle earlier when he had the chance. As he pulled back his bow string and took aim, his champion regarded the emerald flask for a moment in front of his face before turning it upside own with a slight frown.

The god faltered and retracted the bow slightly, easing the pressure of the arrow as a few minute drops of liquid flame fell from the large flask before it turned a dull green. The undead simply shrugged at the turn of events before chucking the item behind him, ignoring the sound of the glass shattering into many tiny pieces as he stood on shaky knees.

Again, Gwyndolin was left speechless at the absurd behaviour of an undead throwing away his _only_ insurance against stronger foes before he shook his head and pulled the string of his bow back, all shock wiped away. There were important things to think about right now.

**"Does thou intend to try my patience further? Or wilt thou perish from thine own arrogance?"**

Argon seemed not to hear him as he cracked his neck with a tilt of the head. as more blood dribbled down his monochrome skin he pushed out his chest and sighed in pleasure as his spine popped in a few places before combing a hand through his ruffled hair.

Mildly annoyed at being ignored, the god tried again. **"Perhaps thou mind has become placid and is ready to heed my words carefully."** At this, his champion offered a half-smile in reply before dropping his upper body forward. His arms were limply swaying parallel to one another as he had done before and his long raven locks cast a shadow upon his eyes as he spoke.

"When the ashes… start to _rise_ and the _moon_ falls from the sky. And a thousand candles… burn into the night," he paused as he drew a thin rapier seemingly from thin air to rest in his right hand, causing Gwyndolin to freeze up slightly. That blade belonged to a Velkian pardoner and was enchanted with enough occultic power to kill any god if it hit but a single artery. Questions began to formulate in the gods mind about the weapon when Argon began to speak again. "When the angles softly _cry_... on the flames… below the _sky_, tell me then Gwyndolin…" Argon raised his head finally, his hair parting like a burnt, ripped curtain to reveal a salivating undead with crazed written across the glassiness of his heterochromatic eyes. The god tensed.

"Would a thousand souls still pray? For _you and I…_"

He didn't wait for an answer as he dashed forward. Gwyndolin immediately released the arrow he had been holding before pointing his sceptre at the undead and firing a few azure arrows in quick succession. In a bout of perfect skill, Argon swiped his blade in an upwards arc, splitting the arrow in half and running through the valley it made as the two halves parted. He cackled loudly as one of the spells hit him in the chest, burning his chest but doing nothing to slow his movements as he used his blade to cut through another, dodge the third and take the last in the shoulder.

Gwyndolin's eyes widened in surprise at the uselessness of his attacks but didn't relent, throwing a wave of his darts and focussing as a large spell circle looped around his body. He was nonplussed by how the venom he had injected into the man hadn't kicked in yet but formulated a strategy as his snakes and gown took on a transparent hue.

Argon merely scoffed at the darts thrown his way and swiped at them madly as if he were some crazed barbarian – which wouldn't be too far from the truth in this instance. Some of the long projectiles bit into his body, piecing his muscles and bones with unreal pain but all it did was propel his laughter even more as he approached the fading god and sliced down with a strong arm. When the blade met nothing but air and the sinner he had targeted disappeared entirely, the undead uttered a loud shout before a powerful blast of blue flames clipped his shoulder. He lurched forward a step, which again shocked the Darkmoon god since that was one of his more potent spells. Argon turned his head and glared at his foe from above his shoulder, violet and black eye glowing with malice.

"Of course, they won't be praying for you." He said and sprinted towards the god, leaping into the air like he did before. Gwyndolin sent a snake to intercept him but in a display of flexibility, he dodged the bite in mid-air, spun and drew another lengthy blade from thin air before bringing it down on the god. Gwyndolin raised his sceptre in time and nearly buckled under the gravity-added force of the unorthodox attack.

For a moment, they stayed in suspended animation, his champion burning his glare into Gwyndolin's well… crown before he hissed out a loud whisper, "It's the day of the **_dead_ **," the god raised his other hand caught the Chosen Undead with a punch against his mutated cheek. To both of their surprise, Argon went flying into another pillar and bounced onto the ground.

The god rubbed the knuckles on his left hand. He may have possessed herculean strength, but it didn't mean it hurt any less to actually throw a punch. If his father had seen this, he wondered if his terrible idea to raise him as a woman would have still held ground.

Argon growled and pushed himself up from the floor with his hands, looking exactly like a hollow with no legs as he grabbed his rapier. He settled into a sprinter's crouch before shooting off, racing towards the god yet _again_. Gwyndolin wasted no time and fired a hail of his moonlight arrows at him, not stopping even as the muscles in his arms began to burn. The corrupted Chosen Undead changed direction and skirted right, leaving a trail of golden poles stabbing the ground in his wake. He changed direction again and went straight for the god, jerking his head to the side when an arrow tired to impale his head. When he was a few feet away he dropped to his knees and slid under a desperate attack from a nearby snake before roughly swinging the rapier. He watched the dark energy glint over the metal before it sheared through one of the snake's thick bodies, expelling a shower of dark blood everywhere.

The Darkmoon god gasped as the pain hit him, choking on the shout he would have uttered when a malevolent essence crept into the open wound, burning and chilling his body all at the same time whilst he felt his soul being pierced by a foul magic. So this was what it felt like to be on the receiving end of one of those blasphemous blades enchanted with the Witch's power.

It was rancid, so much so that the god curled his lip in disgust as Argon appeared behind him before being slapped against the ground with four of his snakes. Argon tried to use the sword to stab one of his snakes, so Gwyndolin pinned the arm to the tiles below with two of his arrows. The undead screamed in rage and began pulling his hand up, through the shaft of the arrows. The god attempted to stop him but was caught off guard by the stray firebomb thrown into his line of sight by the undeads other arm.

Argon used this time to rip his forearm away from the ground, uncaring of the pouring blood or larger wound he had created, before pulling his Dragonbow from his bottomless box. He planted it into the ground and was about to knock an arrow of his own into it when a massive ball of energy appeared from the smokescreen he created, hitting him at point blank and rupturing the metal of his bow to warped pieces. He offered another shout of rage and pain as he flew back, leaving a trail of crimson liquid behind and he hit the stairs leading towards the Throne Room.

Gwyndolin appeared from the explosion not harmed in the slightest as he waved his large hand to clear the excess gunpowder before looking at Argon with a plain stare. His champion, for his part, merely snarled back like some animal in the wild. The god breathed out a sigh. The damage to his mind was too far gone to heal by normal means. He needed to be killed now before he worsened or turned hollow, and it needed to be done fast.

In a flash, the god drew another arrow and fired. In a bout of surprising speed, the undead snatched the projectile from the air as he spun from the momentum. His black bow materialised in his left hand and he knocked the arrow, pulled back the drawstring, stopped spinning as he aimed for the god's head and fired in less than three seconds.

The Darkmoon Lord was almost stunned to silence again, _almost_ being the key word. He had seen the undeads capabilities for himself and knew he was prone to react to battle stimulus 'on the fly', as Ornstein had once said. Foe's like Argon were seldom found but dangerous when engaged, it was one of the reasons he needed to keep a cool head. He blocked the arrow with a flick of his sceptre and his champion roared maniacally.

**"Enough Argon!"** Gwyndolin bellowed, making the room shake. **"Cease this foolish endeavour, or thou shalt find naught but death from thine actions."**

"Go to hell, sinner!" the Chosen Undead replied and rose, albeit like a quivering leaf in a storm. He had lost too much blood and he was injured beyond his physical means. Which is why the god couldn't understand why the undead refused to surrender. He had to give his stubbornness credit, however, such integrity was seldom found. When he had made his champion come to his senses, perhaps that same perseverance would be the saving grace of the entire kingdom.

**"Remember that I warned thou."**

Argon breathed heavily, limping towards him as his bow vanished with a sparkle of fine dust and a halberd replaced it. "Your end is _near_." He took a death breath before rushing towards Gwyndolin for what seemed like the umpteenth time. The halberd made to carve a wicked smile into one of his snakes, but the god fired a single dart at it, and the undead reeled backwards. He stabled himself and jumped as Gwyndolin swung his sceptre, the two weapons collided, and a shrill ring rang out before Argon used the momentum to flip his body up and send a kick to the god's face. The boot connected with Gwyndolin's face and he grinned madly before he was punched to the ground for the second time.

With a quick backwards roll, the undead rested on his feet in a low crouch, his halberd two-handed and ready. Unfortunately, his eyes didn't pick up on the arrow racing towards him the moment he was roughly thrown to the ground. He could only watch in shock as the elegantly made projectile sailed towards him in slow motion before the spiralled tip dug deep into the centre of his forehead; a direct hit.

**_SHNACK!_ **

Gwyndolin observed in bittersweet revelry as his champion, his valued human and comfort slowly dissipated in a crumbling of millions of tiny white specks of light before his body suddenly burst into a harmless explosion of pure light. It faded just as soon as it appeared leaving the Great Hall in a calm silence, blood and weapons still littering the area like debris amidst the broken ivory tiles.

* * *

**(A/N: Was going to let it end here but there's too much content for this arc)**

He was dead. D-E-A-D. Dead. It wasn't unusual since he had died hundreds, if not _thousands_ of times but that wasn't the point. The fact that he, after so much scrapes after the Painted World, had _actually_ succumbed to an eventual end was just… well, it was just outlandish!

He had done his best, used every possible strategy to avoid falling into that chasm of nothingness and now he was in the very same oblivion he had promised never to fall into…

_And it was all that fem-boy's fault!_

Fem… boy? Wait, did he mean Lord Gwyndolin?

_Don't you **dare** address that sinner as 'Lord'. He'll pay for putting his putrid hands on me, I'll TEAR THAT SMIRK OFF HIS FACE!_

Wha- sinner? What are you talking about… and what do you mean by that threat? I know he's never done much for me personally but he _is_ still a God you kno-

**_Blasphemy!_ **_His kind cannot be called 'gods', **he** cannot be called divine. They are but self-proclaimed bigots upon a throne of lies! For you to assume such **filth** as something omnipotent is profane._

What makes you so sure? I don't believe in the gods any more than you do but to call them 'filth'? That's going too far.

_They **lied** to you, **brainwashed** you, made you kill **innocent** lives and you call that **FINE?!** _

B-But they had th-their reasons. Gwyndolin had his reasons, surely. That was why I… why I decided to return to the castle, to ask him of his motives.

_And did he explain anything to you?_

No, he… he didn't.

**_Exactly._ **_That is why he shall be judged for his actions, torn to **pIeCeS **like the trash he is!_

But it was because of _you_ that he didn't explain himself… It was… because of you that I died, that I lost control in the first place!

_And your **point**?_

Wh-Who are you? What are you doing in my head? Why do you have such beef with the-

**_CRACK_ **

What was that?

_How should I know? It's probably just your imagination._

No, that can't be right. YOU are a part of my imagination!

_Oh? Is that right?_

Y-Yeah!

_Then what do you call those memories you saw?_

That's- I… I don't know- **AH!**

_Something wrong?_

My-My head! It hurts. Oh, its hurts so bad!

_I guess that was the cracking we heard earlier._

Then that means-

_Yes, yet **another** piece of yourself torn away by the curse. All because of that damned protestant…_

S-Stop! I won't let you near Gwyndolin!

_Like **you** could stop me! BAHAHAHA!_

Who _are_ you anyway? Why are you in my head? Go away already, stay away from-

_It's time for me to take over, now. Go to **sleep.** _

No! I won't. I'll stop y-

**_SLEEEEP!_ **

* * *

It was honestly a disappointment to see such futility in Lithecore's opinion. He couldn't understand the problem Argon had killing a simple nobody when he had the corruption flowing through his veins, the spark of rage that was required for him to adopt the persona he had conveniently parked in some isolated corner in his mind, and let's not _forget_ the overabundant armoury of weapons he had stashed away somewhere on his body. When the wraith had seen the efficient use and quick-draw capability such magic possessed, he had begun thinking that he needed one too. His twin just made it look so appealing.

His defeat, however, had been both unexpected and pathetic. To think that his Yin-half could be so weak was just an impossible thought. He had defeated Kirk many times with humorous tactics and unconventional manoeuvres. Although calling _that_ love-bird a challenge was like saying Kaathe was a puppy; a complete lie. But whilst the Thorned Darkwraith was a weakling in his eyes, he was considered one of the strongest undead the land itself possessed. If Argon had had the potential to best a man dressed as a thicket over four times, kill an Izalith sister _and_ convince a behemoth in rock to join his small party then he couldn't understand why a mere Darkmoon recluse would be even a remote issue; he had a _cross breed_ with him for pity sake.

Perhaps it was because he hadn't truly awoken yet? He felt the rush of mixed emotions when Argon had been fighting the currently panting god but maybe they weren't strong enough to bring out those latent memories that would lock his mind into a state of unhinged dystopia. It would be necessary to destroy this resentful happy-go-lucky persona he seemed to possess. He would need to kill that dumb dragon-girl if she became the spanner in his works, making his other half believe this fantasy that he was some knight in shining armour.

With a sigh, Lithecore made his way around the pillar he had been standing behind and descended the flight of stairs in front of him. If Argon couldn't finish some simple-minded trash, then he would have to do so himself; perhaps then Kaathe would finally accept his request to be named the new Darkwraith Commander after he brought the greedy snake the soul of his nemesis. At least then he wouldn't have to be badgered by some bucket-helmed tsundere – although he enjoyed the amusement the man brought with him.

Despite his Black Knight armour weighing quite a lot his foot steps were silent as he approached the stationary god from behind. If all went well, he could probably end this quickly with a poisoned blade to the neck of taller adversary before being off. Then again with all those snakes that had minds of their own he doubted he'd be so lucky, and besides… it would be a terrible downer for the son of Gwyn to fall to a simple _assassination_ of all things. That would just purge all the fun and who wanted that?

As the wraith touched the last step with his boot and reached down to lift the discard giant halberd sitting in a pool of blood, he heard the god stir like a guardian in Darkroot Wood awakened by a lifeform's proximity.

**"Who goes there?"** his voice was commanding and cold for someone that had just had to kill their only chance of survival. Ah well, a strong spirit was the sweetest to break when the time came anyways.

With a twirl, the blood staining the polearm was sent flying as he ran for the god that looked as if he had seen a ghost.

* * *

Gwyndolin stared at the leftover bloodstain his champion had left behind. It had been a long, sad battle leaving no victors… only losers. It was as if all fight had expelled from the god after sending the final arrow into Argon's head, a thought he still didn't wish to revisit for fear of it making him sick to his core; his colourful eyes dulling slightly under his crown.

He had finally done it, however; regretfully killed the only undead he truly trusted to stave off the corruption ravaging his body and the insanity poisoning his soul. While that had nearly torn a bountiful hole into his large heart, he had also somewhat gained something from the crazed undead; a revelation.

He hadn't realized the freedom, the ability to choose that he had possessed from the start. He would have blamed his blindness on his father and siblings' burdens and expectations being thrown on top of his shoulders, but he knew it was purely his fault alone. For never thinking he could amount to anything special as the isolated last born of Gwyn, for surrendering his opinions in favour of his elders that had always been wrong, and of course, for failing to speak up when, one by one, his family completely dwindled until it was only him and his unwanted niece trapped in canvas.

He truly owed it all to his champion, if not for his sudden aggressiveness and blind rage he would have lived for another millennium – that's if he had that much time left – as little more than a shell of what he truly was. He owed Argon more than he could fathom, the undead with unknown origin was about to save his kingdom after all.

Or he was _considering_ it at least, Gwyndolin corrected himself. He still needed to explain the reason for this quest to the undead _before _anything moved on further. He was shocked at just how the undead had even seen through his plan in the first place, but he reasoned that after travelling with Priscilla; someone that certainly wouldn't reserve any respect for the gods save for himself and, unfortunately, Velka; and the betrayed Archbishop Havel that were both somewhere near Borgus; it was only about time he figured out all this was a ruse.

With another sigh, he dropped his head as he thought of the Bishop with a troubled frown. He would also have to deal with that moody old man when he eventually encountered him and stood on the receiving end of his legendary berating. That would be a headache for another day, however. After he explained things to Argon, he would recuperate in his chambers whilst he figured out a different problem that required change immediately; Ringed City.

As the Darkmoon Lord reached out with his magic, he noticed something that he had been too busy to notice, and his frown deepened. It seemed he had an invader on his hands, and said invader was either a revolting Darkwraith that was seeking his souls, or some lucky interloper from another land like the one in yellow armour that had managed to use his lowered wards to their advantage. Either way, they were fools for two reasons; one, they had dared to invade _his_ home now that he was quite royally frustrated, and he had just 'grown some balls', as Ornstein had also said once before. And two, they believed they could sneak up behind a being that was well known for his mastery of the stealth arts.

Still though, he smirked slightly. There was always _one_ fool that thought they were too special compared to the rest. But what was slightly odd was the fact that the magical signature of the phantom behind him felt eerily similar to that of the Chosen Undead himself. Either way he needed to find and eliminate this interloper, he was already too annoyed to bother forcing his Knights to take care of it when he was right here. Besides, he needed to let off some steam of his own.

**"Who goes there?"** Gwyndolin shouted as the room reverberated, bouncing back on the walls before reaching him again before he turned around.

As if life couldn't be crueller to him at that very moment, his eyes widened to the size of gargoyle shields as he saw what looked like the darker version – far more sinister than the one he had just killed – of Argon himself approaching him, donned in Black Knight armour no less.

**"What trickery is this!" **the god bellowed in utter shock and disbelief before the phantom began to chuckle darkly, the sound sending minute tremors down his spine. The invader before him was almost the mirror-image of Argon himself; long dark hair, pale skin half covered by thin black-veins and deep amber eyes – well, one of his eyes were amber at least. What was fascinating was the fact that this version of his champion seemed to possess the abyssal scourge on the _left_ side of his body instead of the right.

"_Trickery?_ Oh, no, no, _no_. I am _definitely_ real." The phantom said in a hoarse voice, sounding more like an unpleasant scraping of claws against stone walls with each word he enunciated. It was thoroughly confusing to the Darkmoon God for how similar he seemed to Argon, yet how different he seemed to speak, act and appear in terms of his aura.

Gwyndolin was no expert on every aspect of the magic he had flawless control over. When thinking generally, it was impossible for him to find, observe and learn _every _spell and incantation ever created until this day, it was just too tall an order. However, when it came to a person's aura – or emotional presence – he could boast to being fairly well versed in understanding and analysing them efficiently.

That was why when he said that something seemed completely different about this invader despite him possessing most of the same attributes as his champion, he knew what he was talking about. While Argon's aura had been warm, inviting as an average bonfire and injected with the pleasantness of an orange glow; this person that had the _exact_ same face as the Chosen Undead was a completely different case. His presence wasn't inviting, warm, kind or filled to the brim with that pleasantness Argon did.

When Argon had fought him, Gwyndolin had caught the brief flickers of a darkening colour beginning to erode the undeads orange aura and had felt a mild tinge of malevolence despite his resilient innocent emotions in the background, but that was nothing compared to the utter despair he was currently looking at. It seemed almost as if all the life, all the light and all the _faith_ had been sucked out of this phantom completely. He felt cold, as icy as snow yet as hot as flame at the same time, a confusing feeling to accompany the man's apparent lack of emotions. It was as if the god was staring into something void of all joy and life; as if there was only malice, violence and unrivalled anger. Other than that, Gwyndolin could practically _smell_ the putrid scent of something extremely foul on the man's soul; dark essence. Something that could only come from something equally revolting… a Darkwraith.

**"Begone from this place, wraith or thou shalt feel the smite of the gods."**

The wraith simply smiled at him wickedly with a raised eyebrow, as if what he had said was funny to him. The wraith absently twirled the large halberd in his hands before dropping into a low stance. Gwyndolin narrowed his eyes, it seemed he would need to crush more than just his wayward champion today, how interesting it was all becoming, and the sun had yet to crest over the mountains.

"Of _course_, but not _before_ I've acquired what needs to be collected."

**"And that is?"**

The Darkwraith smiled wider as he began to walk forward. "Your _soul._"

Gwyndolin wasted no time in sending as many of his snakes after the phantom as he could before he began to throw his golden darts and fire consecutive moonlight arrows at his new foe. The Darkwraith reached him in record time, twirling his borrowed polearm to deflect dart and arrow alike whilst he punched, booted and impaled his snakes with terrible accuracy.

The god flinched as more wounds were added to his tally before he prepared a concentrated blast from his sceptre. Unfortunately, as he was about to release the spell, the wraith had already cocked back the halberd and thrown it in an impeccable measure of strength; knocking the weapon out of his hand.

Before Gwyndolin had a chance to react, the phantasmic form of the wraith crossed the distance and drew a great sword only heavyweight Black Knights could wield. The god's eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets when he saw the wraith twirl the blade around him as if it weighed nothing but paper before cleaving three of his snakes apart in one smooth motion.

The Darkmoon Lord gasped in pain and reeled back as the wraith took the opportunity to leap into the air, black blade ready to impale his head as a sinister grin grew on his pale features. The god only smiled back in response, suddenly raising himself up and catching the phantom in a powerful uppercut, sending his blade clattering to one side as he rolled against the ground a few times, the black and red shadows around his body becoming disturbed before they reconvened into the shape of a human.

For the second time that day, Gwyndolin rubbed his left hand and muttered under his breath. Phantom or regular being in the flesh, punching them both still hurt like hell. Besides the pain in his body and fist, however, he was really starting to get pissed off that the people attacking him thought he was incapable of defending himself at close range without any weapons. He knew he was inexperienced in hand-to-hand combat, but he _did_ know to throw a punch. Damned stereotypes, he should had taken his brother's advice to buff himself up when he had the chance.

"My, _my_, you're still _this_ strong after all that fighting? _Impressive._" The god raised a curious eyebrow. So the look-alike had watched his duel with Argon, had he? It explained his ability to read his moves like a book. "Even so, I'm afraid not even _your_ power can save you this time, _Gwyndolin._"

Without waiting for a response – not that the god would find it pertinent to answer scum – the wraith dived back into battle, his arms flailing behind him in the same manner Argon had. The Darkmoon Lord ignored that for now and his snakes rushed toward their foe as fast as they could, intent on devouring the big snack in black armour whole when he came close.

Before either of the two could reach each other, they were surprised when an arrow the size of a gargantuan spear impaled the Darkwraith mid-step, pinning his abdomen to a nearby pillar with a resounding _clang._ Gwyndolin turned around in confusion to see the fresh-looking form of Argon in all his angered glory, a brand new Dragonbow in his black and white hands as he glared at the phantom he had just hit.

"No wraith's stealing my prey." He growled, violet and amber eyes glowing faintly at the top of the stairway he was standing on.

He almost looked like a brave hero standing there, still shirtless as ever, a monstrous bow in his hands. Gwyndolin sweat-dropped despite the situation.

_If only that were so._

Argon merely released the ragged breath he had been holding since his arrival at the Great Hall. He had nearly been too late to kill that swine in white and gold if the severed snake heads and panting deity was anything to go by. As he stood there with a sneer, waiting for the false god to retrieve his sceptre and join him in the Throne Room for whatever round they were onto now, he couldn't help but remember the race he had had to go through just to arrive at this annoying area again… It wasn't entirely pleasant. Not especially since the sinner had managed to kill him for the first time in _weeks_. And now that some pilfering pest had arrived to steal his hard-earned kill, it pissed him off even more.

**"I see thou art still bemused by thy folly." **Gwyndolin said calmly, gazing from the haggard undead to the look-alike wraith pinned to the wall like a marionette without its strings. If he had an ounce of the interest he usually did, he would have postponed their vexing duel to question the black and crimson phantom. It was a shame he had neither the patience or strength left to even care.

"And I see you missed me so _much_ you became a masochist in my absence," Argon replied with a half grin. He may want to rip this bastard to pieces, but he had to admit that the fem-boy was staring to grow on him. He jutted his chin out towards the phantom in question.

"Who's the pest?"

**"Is it not one of thine own?"**

"You think I carry cockroaches in my pouches?"

Gwyndolin smiled. He was nowhere near his normal self, but he was coming around at least, it was a thing to be glad about. Seeing the undead offer a crumb of regular humour was better than his twisted amused taunts.

**"Then the wraith is of no consequence."** Argon nodded, his sneer still fixed on his cheeks like red finger-marks after a strong slap. He spared a quick glance at the impaled Darkwraith and momentarily raised an eyebrow at him. He looked mildly familiar. Then the undead shrugged and turned his narrowed eye back to the god. Then again, all invaders, phantoms and wraiths looked alike to him, it didn't matter if he _did_ know one at the end of the day.

"Good. Now get your ass over here. Its about time…" he rolled his shoulders as Gwyndolin retrieved his sceptre, cast his spell and faded from view. As the Chosen Undead turned around, drew his Demon Hammer and cracked his neck; his foe materialised before him in the centre of the second largest room in the castle. The breeze up here was cooler, like fresh dew on the tip of his tongue if he opened his mouth and the light beaming through the stained windows sending warm caresses against his bare skin. Argon opened his eyes wider as he zeroed in in the blasphemer, heterochromatic orbs glowing with equal ferocity.

"…Time to get shredded."

**(*Queue _'Congratulations' _by _Sleeping With Sirens*_)**

Gwyndolin initiated the fight for once, summoning balls of blue fire to burn above his head. Argon prepared for it to smash into him when the growing basin of azure flame extended its reach, sending a massive, circular ring around both fighters. The undead turned to the god in question before he had to twist around a soul arrow cast his way.

He managed to take two steps forward before he had to force his body to bend over backwards to avoid another magical arrow. His spine clicked and cracked as the vertebrae were forced to prove their flexibility before he flipped his body, spinning like a ballet dancer in mid-air to bypass two more blazing arrows. He landed in a three-point stance, his hammer resting on his shoulder as he stared at Gwyndolin who seemed nonchalant. Argon's scowl morphed into a wide grin. At least his tired foe was keeping things interesting, it wouldn't do to stick to the same routine when you were fighting a killing machine with unparalleled battle prowess. Or at least… that's just how _he_ thought about it.

As the god ended his turn, three burning balls of magic diverted from the circle around them, speeding toward the undead. Argon sniffed before raising his hammer and spinning like he was throwing a weighted disk. The orbs of soul energy hit their mark with _ping_ before exploding in a shower of light blue, like some falling curtain of neon rain; obscuring his champion for a moment.

When the haze cleared, it revealed a standing Argon, untouched by the attack save for his monstrous hammer possessing darkened burn marks on the petrified wood. Gwyndolin received a smirk before being rushed. The undead leapt into the air and smashed his weapon against his sceptre, the surprising size and gravitational advantage of the undead forcing him back before his snakes' bit into Argon's shoulders. The mad man grunted before he was thrown into the air similar to last time.

Simultaneously, both men drew their respective black and golden bows before firing arrows at the distance of a few feet. The god's aim was as flawless as his skin tone as they punctured his champion's thigh, left bicep and clipped his ear; sending him spinning like a children's toy. Likewise, most of Argon's arrows seemed to find their mark in a bout of excellent motor skills as the poison-tipped heads plunged into the retracting snakes and Gwyndolin's shoulder, making him grunt in pain. The arrow punctured his smooth skin, staining his clothes crimson before he pulled the object out with a wince. It was a good thing he was somewhat resistant to poison.

Unfortunately, the undead didn't account for the orbs still hanging in the air like chandeliers as they struck his body at second intervals.

_BOOM!_

The first orb crashed into his stomach, a wheeze leaving his lips as he flew higher.

_BOOM!_

The second orb burned his right shoulder blade, making him change direction and fly west.

_BOOM!_

_BOOM!_

**_BOOM!_ **

Gwyndolin watched in rapt attention as the undead danced in mid-air, bouncing off his many homing spells in bursts of bright blue. It was so amusing that he had stifle the small snigger that left his mouth. It was rude to laugh at your foe's predicament, whether it _was_ your cause or not.

The last spell made Argon flying into the ground face-first, his nose cracking under the impact before he groaned. He rose to his knees rather slowly before staring at the god.

_Screw cheap shots, that was freaking cheating!_

The undead raised both hands as twin crossbows appeared in his grip before he pulled the trigger, the bolts diving for a headshot. Gwyndolin backed up as both projectiles found themselves nipping at both of his ears, breaking his focus at the attack to sensitive appendages.

He raised a hand to feel the damage but felt no blood. He heard the undead growl before he turned and found nothing there but his blood. With a start he realized the ruse he had fallen for and looked up to see Argon coming down to him with a staff those Titanite Demons were famed for using. Before the polearm could wrap around his thin neck, the Darkmoon Lord aimed his bow and fired at point blank range, impaling the undead but all it did was nudge his body and studder his momentum.

Without thinking, he called upon the orbs surrounding them as he raised his sceptre to block the attack. The U-shaped metal of the polearm clanged against his sceptre and Argon launched a swift kick to his wrist, weakening his grip on the weapon. As the shaft of the catalyst began to fall from his hand, they were both hit by a barrage of blue, sending both of them flying back a fair distance away.

"Ahhh-GAH!" Argon shouted as he bounced against the warm floor. With a flip of his legs, he rolled to his feet, summoned hammer once again before running for the open protestant. It was now or never, and he would much rather prefer a false god with his head bashed in than a living one holding _his_ head on his sceptre.

As for the Darkmoon God, he was reeling from being hit by his own spell. In actuality, he had only cast that many homing soulmass to act as a distraction for the undead when necessary. He would have never expected that he would need it to wound both his champion _and_ him out of desperation. As the blue mist cleared the god noticed his shoulder still aflame with the spell and patted it out with a huff. At least he knew he could take a direct hit from his own attacks, even if said attack had left him a few feet away from joining his father in whatever afterlife Nito had created.

Just then he noticed movement in front of him and his eye twitched in annoyance as the undead came back running at full force, a bleeding mess with that petrified tree ready to bust his teeth in. With a grumble about stubbornness, Gwyndolin coated his sceptre in a blue haze and swung it like a club against Argon's enormous tree. As the two weapons connected, Argon was startled to see his Demon Hammer – something he had begun to call the Club of Judgement during their fight – splinter into a thousand tiny pieces before his multi-coloured eyes.

Gwyndolin used that moment to his advantage, spinning his catalyst around before slamming it against Argon's right shoulder. A loud _crack_ sounded in the Throne Room as the undead screamed and reeled back. He dropped the broken, jagged stump of the tree in his hands and tried to reach for his Estus only to realise he had broken it in his blind rage.

He was about to utter out a curse when the god's snakes' bit into him again, making the air in his lungs leave him as the snake's fangs punctured said lungs. Another clamped onto his broken arm and he growled through the pain, drawing the spare Silver Knight sword in his storage to hack at them both when he felt his right arm being tugged.

He froze and turned to stare at the reptile. He saw a wicked gleam in the thing's dull slitted eyes – if that were even possible – before the snake used its incredible jaw strength to rip his arm from his body. He cried out in anguish as he felt the layers of skin tear away first before the tendons and muscle gave up as the limb was ripped violently from his fragmented shoulder, expelling a waterfall of blood. For a brief moment, Argon subconsciously looked at the turn of evens and scoffed. How was that for poetic justice?

_"AHHHHHHHHH!"_

Gwyndolin held back a wave of nausea at the sight as his snakes retracted, one of them throwing the black veined arm across the room as if it held some great offense to the illusionary serpent. As Argon fell onto his stomach screeching in pain, the god cancelled the illusion his body held as he grew slightly shorter, the snakes retracting under his gown in a soft wash of light as his bare feet touched the warm, tiled floor.

**(*Fight song ends*)**

**"Is that enough for thou?"** Gwyndolin asked the undead who was still trying to crawl with one arm towards his sword, a grimace on his face as blood poured from his wound like a fountain.

"I'll kill you. I _kill_ you!"

The god sighed and rested his bow against his back, simultaneously opening his hand as his sceptre was transported to his chamber. Now that he had incapacitated the undead, he would be sure there would be no further resistance when his champion was bleeding out. What worried him was the fact that the first death hadn't stopped this pervasive obsession he had with these 'sinners'. While it could be argued that his earlier assessment of Velka turning the undeads mind was true, he didn't feel as sure when staring at his unadulterated rage directed towards him. This looked like something more personal than a fanatical endeavour, although he could be wrong.

Still, it was pitiful to see his champion like this. It was even mournful to think that if he had failed to act sooner and pacify the undead, he would have probably shown the same aggression towards Priscilla. As far as he could tell, Argon had called his status of being a deity blasphemous. If his assumption was correct – and it was rarely wrong – that would mean Argon's split persona was directed towards hating the Great Lords and possibly all divinity in general. He would have to find a way to fix this agathokakological behaviour before Havel and Priscilla found them.

At the moment, the two were still stuck in the smith's workshop. Whilst Argon had impaled that Darkwraith, it was clear he wasn't entirely banished from this world if those fog gates keeping the undeads companions and his Knights at bay were still up. He sighed tiredly at the headache he had to deal with, it never rained but poured for him.

"Y-You… think this i-is over?!" the undead managed to mutter through gritted teeth and droopy eyes. He had lost a _lot_ of blood. "I'm just getting… getting started! Wait for me to get up, you'll s-s-see…"

The god silently cursed himself for not acting to fix the undeads affliction sooner. Perhaps this could have all been avoided if he had just figured out a way to delay the spread of this abyssal scourge when it showed its baby teeth to them all.

With a soft voice, Gwyndolin began to speak. "Enough now Argon, thou hath suffered too much."

"To hell with your opinions, sinner," he spat and glared at the Darkmoon Lord. "you can't kill me and think it's over. I'll keep coming back, I _won't_ stop just because you took my dominant side. You hear me?!"

"When _would_ thou stop then?"

"When you die. Die like the **_filth_ **you are. You're all carrion, waste, garbage, a bloated corpse for the crows to pick at." Spittle began to fly from his lips as he spoke. "One day all of your retched kind with feel the judgement you so rightly deserve."

"Including Priscilla?"

The remaining amber orb of Argon's swirled with a hint of clarity as his words got stuck in his throat. The god may have been indecisive in his decisions, but he was no fool when it came to the person's he kept close to his heart. Whether he was a god or a human, these emotions were something he could share with any race; as such, he didn't need to be the powerful intellectual he was to know that the Chosen Undead harboured strong feelings for his niece.

Using that bond would be the pinnacle to right his mind and possibly upturn the scourge if only slightly. Again, it wasn't a fool-proof plan, but the god believed and trusted in his champion's ability to break out from this shell of negativity and depravity. The undead had sparked a fire in him to finally act with the unknown trait he had been too adamant to admit he possessed, if anyone could come through a hurdle so big not even Artorias' will could overcome, it was Argon.

For a moment, the undeads face softened as he allowed the name to bounce around his brain. His mouth opened finally as he tried to speak the word himself. "Pri… Pris-Priscilla?"

"Yes," Gwyndolin said softly, "from the Painted World thou freed her. A feat not even I could achieve."

Argon looked up at him as he spoke, some sense of recollection crossing his features.

"From her exodus, she has remained by thine side. A companion and friend when thine authority wilted before thine eyes."

"Yes…"

"Does thou understand now?" Gwyndolin asked quickly, his exhilaration that this was actually working spurring him on. "Can thou truly remain as thou art knowing she and Havel art there for thineself?"

"The protestants."

Gwyndolin frowned. Had he heard right? He decided to ask.

"Argon, what di-"

"Snuff out the unwanted, snuff out the unnecessary. The Bishop, the cross breed, the god… the false prophet, the seductress and the sinner…" his breathing began to quicken as he stared with glassy, unseeing eyes at Gwyndolin.

"They must all _die._"

The god opened his mouth in both shock and confusion as his champion began to cackle insanely, repeatedly smacking his head against the floor like some deranged lunatic in the asylum he had escaped from. Gwyndolin just couldn't find it within himself to reply. He was shocked that the steady progress he had been making to revert the undead to his former self had just failed so unpredictably. And he was mortified at the prospect that his champions mind was so far gone that he even wished to murder his closest comrades like they were nothing but dead weight.

He knew thinking that he would change with just a few simple words was just ignorance but to understand that Argon seemed to retain _no_ visible trace of remembrance whatsoever was just bone-chilling. This was truly his biggest blunder that he could have fixed but chose not to.

"I know," Argon said just as he stopped his mad cackling, "let's start with _you_."

The Darkmoon Lord frowned in confusion when he noticed the undeads left hand wearing a particular red glove that emitted a small glow. With a start, he saw the magic pooling under his palm and his eyes snapped to his feet just in time to see circular rings of red collate themselves around the god as one of the circles turned a dangerous red.

Gwyndolin shouted out as pillar of chaos flame rose from the ground like snakes from their den, snagging his gown, burning his skin and trapping him in a circle of angry flame. Argon began to laugh loudly again as a circle of fire appeared beneath his unclothed belly. The god tried to call out to him but was too late as the pillar of fire punched him into the air with a mighty fist.

He gasped as the flames burnt his monochrome body as he collapsed on his face again, groaning whilst a few small sniggers left his upturned lips. It seemed that had satisfied his fleeting sense of accomplishment.

Gwyndolin waited until the flames extinguished themselves, the magic from Argon cutting off after he was hit by his own attack. While the god was happy he hadn't perished in an attack that would have definitely killed him if it weren't any stronger, he was more shocked by the fact that the undead had managed to master a pyromancy thought extinct after all Chaos sisters had supposedly perished in the ruins of Izalith.

He watched with blooming depression as Argon continued to crawl away from him, his mind still in dystopia as he rushed toward whatever hallucination the blood loss had caused him. His eyes caught the glint of the discarded Silver Knight sword and reached down to pick it up with a wince. His body had been badly burnt along with the other wounds he had sustained. It was a miracle he was still alive in the first place, although he owed it to the undead before him that he hadn't just given into his own worthless persona and allowed himself to be beheaded.

As he approached Argon, he ran a hand over the beautiful blade, admiring its craftmanship whilst also narrowing his eyes as he enchanted it with a spell he hoped to never use for the remainder of his life time. His crown was illuminated a bright yellow as a multitude of lightning sparks began to coat the blade, creating a soft crackling as the blade glowed with the powerful magic poured into it.

Gwyndolin stared at the lightning blade as it chirped and crackled relentlessly in his grasp. It was more of a shame of what he was about to do with the blade compared to the spell he had been forced to use but it was only fitting. His champion deserved to receive and noble end, even if he _would_ reincarnate. This was just a way to honour his death as a warrior that fought until the end, it was the _least_ he could do.

As the god entered the sunlight shining through the window he plunged the blade into Argon's spine, pushing down until the hilt touched his back and closed his eyes as the undead screeched at the top of his lungs.

For Argon, it was the most indescribable pain he had ever felt before. He had known that being nicked with a blade coated in gold pine resin was a peach of an experience, tearing through more than just his skin when a hit actually landed, but _this_ was on a different level entirely. It felt like his very _soul_ was being electrocuted, turned into a supernova of aguish as he was pinned to the floor like some crawling lizard. The sparks from the blade ripped through his body like heated metal touching water, evaporating his flesh into nothing but misty red vapour. His bones, muscles and innards weren't spared either. Oh no; they were just obliterated, torn asunder like the rest of him, leaving a jagged oval hole where his intestines used to be.

A single tear made its way down the god's cheek as he watched the scene unfold. It was that of carnage, ferocity and power. He knew he had failed to help his Chosen Undead, and this was the first fruits of his lethargic labour. He had been too late once again, fallen short of the mark and missed the opportunity to right the wrongs he had made from the start. What use was his free will now when he was too late to utilize it effectively? He gave a grim looked towards the Great Hall. Priscilla would be the most disappointed in him besides himself after he told her that the one to save her was now but a broken shell of his former self. He was truly despicable, perhaps Argon was right to call him a sinner… all he had ever done was make the wrong choices after all.

Even so, he steeled himself. He would still have to fight this corrupted undead again and again until he lost his will and turned hollow, leaving him to lie in the bed of depression and failure he had made for himself.

He placed a hand on the hilt of the sword buried in Argon's back with dull eyes as the undeads screams turned into strained cries. How odd, even when his champion knew he was outmatched, he still continued to fight. Even now, when he was about to die again, he still remained stubborn to the core. Gwyndolin wondered if _he_ could only day be like that as well.

With a flick of his wrist, the blade tore through the tiled floor below as he dragged it forward. The enchanted blade was so strong it moved through Argon's body as if it were paper, and with another flick, Gwyndolin severed the undeads body in half, crying softly as the screams of his champion abruptly ended as his head was cut in two.

Immediately his corpse broke into white particles before bursting into thin air, leaving nothing but a puddle of blood to stain this area as well. Gwyndolin gasped suddenly as his body was filled with an influx of souls, healing his wounds at a rapid pace as the lightning on the blade he was holding finally faded, its job complete.

The god snapped his head towards the Great Hall, frowning when he saw the bloodstain from earlier gone from sight, as if it had been cleaned by someone. Gwyndolin shook his head as he recalled the number of souls he had absorbed and was shocked to realize that the number was close to one-hundred thousand. He gazed mournfully at the bloodstain at his feet. That had been Argon's accumulation; he didn't know how he knew but something just told him it was. He briefly wondered how many foes he must have slaughtered before coming to the castle and shivered. If he had been in the right mindset with the same endeavour to claim his soul, he would have been able to slay him in no time.

But that was a worry he wouldn't have to bother with anymore, his champion was lost, gone with the blowing wind. And there was no getting him back.

Gwyndolin looked up towards the bonfire crackling in front of his sister's deserted bedchamber and focused on it, wishing to warp there without the use of his sceptre, the poor catalyst needed to rest a bit for now. While casting magic without something to funnel his power through was slightly more difficult, he could still do it with enough focus, even if it did take more magical power from him that usual.

He faded from sight on the ground level before a large spell circle formed next to the coiled sword. Soon his tall body re-emerged inside the circle before the dim light faded, leaving him alone and in front of a room he thought he would never need to approach again.

He stared at the opened doors of the room and at the illusion of his sister stretched out on a large mattress before the bonfire next to him roared to life; spitting out an undead with long black hair, a bare chest and black veins covering the right side of his body with heterochromatic eyes.

With a deep breath, Gwyndolin prepared himself. **"Argon, art thou…"**

* * *

_Vile, retched, untamed, filthy, bigotry **scum**!_

So I take it you failed, huh?

_Shut up._

I don't know what's worse; being pushed back into a small pocket of space since your ego is so large or being you and _actually_ failing when you talk so big.

_I said: Shut. Up._

I know your problem. Well… I don't _really_ know your problem. I have no idea what you are exactly-

_SHUT UP, ARGON!_

Ah. So, you _do_ know my name then. Very good, I was beginning to think you didn't which is why you were just referring to me as 'you'. It's comforting to know that this sinister, somewhat fanatical side of my mind is semi-cognitive when it comes to topic other than 'this sinner and that'.

_Are you **trying** to piss me off?_

On the contrary, I'm _trying_ piss you **out** of my system. You're a loud, empty vessel with no snooze-button, you preach like you're the goddamn Archbishop of a religious country of nihilists, your imaginary breath stinks from all that bullcrap you've been spouting and DAMN you're an asshole when people try to talk to you. Tell me, have you _ever_ been told to keep your fetishes to yourself because you are kinky as f-

_And how does it feel to know that all the things you hate about me are actually apart of **you**?_

Well… pretty dark.

_That's it?_

Hmm… yeah. All I can really say is that I am one messed up mother f-

_Futile._

'Mother futile'? That doesn't sound right at all. Why would I call myself a 'mother futile'? Whatever that is.

_I meant this conversation you arrogant knave!_

What, really? I thought we were getting along quite well for a psychopath and an amnesic patient. Hmph, I guess Priscilla was right when she said I had personality disorder! Hahaha!

_Why are you so **brave** all of a sudden? You were a weak-willed sow when I put you to sleep, so why do you vex me like all the other sinners out there?_

Simply because I know you're not real.

_Balderdash! I am the **immortalization** of holy judgement, the **arbiter** to feeble-minded simpletons following a sacrilegious idol that possesses no **shred** of divinity. With my right hand I shall snuff out the **unwanted**, whilst my left purges the **unnecessary**. Under my banner heretical nations shall fall and sea's overflow at the forthcoming of my magnificence!_

And yet, you've allowed yourself to pass away with the very Great Lords themselves.

_What would a pompous ingrate like yourself know of it?! You let our proud history **melt** while in that prison. You committed the greatest **sin** than the remainder of these self-important 'gods' when you forgot who you truly were._

Indeed, and _that_ is why you lost to Gwyndolin.

_What blasphemy are you spouting **now** you weak twit?_

The truth. You couldn't kill the Darkmoon Lord; not because your tactics failed or because you weren't strong enough, you were plenty strong with _my_ power. You failed because a part of you – me – couldn't commit a 'sin' greater than your precious blasphemy; murder.

_Preposterous! I **am** you, I embody the rage, the hate, the ideals of the League-_

Things that are behind me. Things that can never and _will_ never continue. I agree, you _are_ a part of me; but you were me as a human. Now I am undead. I won't be shackled by petty ideals that carry no weight in a land that defies reality.

_Impossible. These ideals are as much a part of my as they are to you. The only reason you are **alive** today is because of those teachings. To say you will simply forget me is like walking without legs, eating without a mouth, breathing without-_

Which is why I'm not going to forget you. You're my past after all. You may appear now and again when I least expect it but I'm fractured deep inside, I can't help but let you show sometimes. Even if you _do_ try and force your way to the surface of my mind, you won't survive long. You're still just a remnant of something I was long ago. I won't need to forget you, you'll fade away with time. All I need to do is ignore you.

_Why you **dishonourable**-_

I think it's time for you to sleep now. Sleep and never wake up. Because if you don't, you'll just disappear like you never existed to begin with. Now, where did I put that extra stash of humanity?

_You won't get away with this! I **will** come back! I am inevitable, the **apocalypse **to this already foaming-at-the-mouth world. You'll just be snuffed out like the remainder of the sinner's out there-_

Rest in peace, pale me.

* * *

Argon looked up at the god before him, humanity restored, strength renewed and, of course, his mind repaired – albeit somewhat with his inner monologue. As he stared through his right eye, he could make out hazy colours in a mixture of blues, greens and whites. It almost looked like he was seeing mist everywhere, even around himself.

What was strange was that his own mist had two clashing colours. The left side of his body held this warm, orange flow about him, as if it was like yellow sand all mellow and comfy under the sun. The other side was a mess of thick, greasy violet. Usually that colour wasn't so bad, but this just looked as if some shmuck had taken a cauldron, thrown in a boatload of ingredients ranging from herbs and spices to a basilisk's eye and a rat's genitalia before they poured in some mucus-like substance into the haphazard pot to add 'ambiance'.

Still, he admitted it was pretty cool to see this stuff, now he had his own little display of what his opponents were packing. Like it had the possibility of warning him of any foe's magical power and strength or something like that. Like a warning or a heads-up. He froze as he thought about it.

_A 'heads-up display'? Pfft, nah. What would really be grand is if I could see a bar of how much stamina and health I had currently. Speaking of which, what's with this nifty gold ring on my finger?_

As he was busy staring at the ring adorning his finger he was broken from his thoughts when Gwyndolin decided to speak up.

**"Argon, art thou…"**

He stared at the god for a moment before realization hit home and his aloof behaviour shifted to something more serious, his heterochromatic eyes glowing brighter in the shadows the crackling bonfire cast around the two of them. Gwyndolin was a bit apprehensive as he spoke, his larger hands nearing the shaft of his bow as he appraised the undead. Argon set his mouth into a thin line and raised a thick eyebrow. Good, he was anxious. He deserved it after lying to him for so long.

He took a firm step forward and watched the god's hand twitch over his bow and for the first time after waking up as he himself noticed the god didn't have snakes for legs this time. Instead, there were these long, slender, white legs that seemed as if they could go on for day-

Wait. Hold on… Gwyndolin was male. And he was straight. He should _not_ be thinking about the **_son_ **of Gwyn like he was feminine.

Then again, the god _did_ seem oddly more like a lass that he gave him credit for, and why did he have boobs?! Or where they boob's in the first place or just like… armour? Abs? stashed snacks? He didn't know. Perhaps he should ask.

"Those fun-bags real?" he swore he saw the god's shoulders deflate as if he was filled with the wind. He frowned, shouldn't he get a glare if it was false or a soul arrow to the face if it was true?

"What? It's a valid question. You're sexually frustrating for a guy, you know that?"

"Argon!"

The undead turned his head towards the floor beneath him as Priscilla and Havel rushed into the Throne Room, being cautious not to step in the blood and discarded weaponry around the room. Argon was about to ask why his Demon Hammer was nothing but a petrified tree stump on the floor and why his Silver Knight sword was currently in the god's larger hand when everything clicked, and his mood turned sombre.

With a drawn-out sigh, signalling his position to his companions and waking Gwyndolin from his trance he locked his gaze to the god's covered eyes and narrowed his brows.

"Explain _everything_. Starting from the beginning. No lies this time."

* * *

**Lord Almighty!!!!!!!! Thank You that I've _FINALLY_ finished this Arc. For lack of a better name, let's just call it the Arc of 'Truth'. If you guys find a better name (I'm certain you will since right now, my brain is mush) please do go ahead and use it.**

**I'd like to firstly apologize for two things; One, the botched ending for this chapter. I had a REALLY nice one that wasn't too fugly after Argon noted his findings through his abyssal eye (no, he doesn't get superpowers from it). Unfortunately, when I had the idea and was about to write it out, an episode of Masher Chef started, and I ran for the lounge… really sorry for that one.**

**The second reason I'm fully prostrating on the ground with my head against the floor as if I'm in a mosque is due to the dark themes I placed on Argon, Lithecore and the story in general for this Arc. I'm extremely capable of writing out these bits of horror and gore and stuff but twisting an otherwise rosy character like Argon just makes me curl up in a ball at the evil I've written life into, 'ya know. So, I am sorry for that.**

**Ah, please do forgive the author's note I placed DIRECTLY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STORY. I guess I'll edit that out when my brain has the energy again. Right now, I'm spent after studying for Finals and finishing this emotional rollercoaster of a chapter, same goes for any grammar and punctuation. Also, was the song I used for final battle appropriate? I wanted to turn it to something that felt very… rock, I suppose. Although, if you guys thought it was a terrible insert, tell me and I'll happily remove it. I was only planning on inserting song prompts in my spin-off anyways.**

**Now, onto the word bank before… ze explanation!**

* * *

**Word Bank: **

**_Agathokakological – _**(adj.) composed of both good and evil.

* * *

**Ze Explanation : Gwyndolin **

· **Let me just say this: I did NOT make Gwyndolin OP to win this fight. The Lord of the Darkmoon is _already_ OP. All I did was use his abilities IG (this stands for IN-GAME and not Instagram, FYI) as well as some common-sense attributes. Let me elaborate:**

1\. **His use of soul arrows and those golden darts are commonplace; arifureta. Since he's basically the strongest magic caster in well, the entire series (which I will still strongly believe even if you prove me wrong) I made him concentrate on forming stronger spells with more cast time, similar to the 'Heavy Soul Arrow' and the like. In his wiki description he's described to use 'darts' instead of moonlight arrows, so I made him use both. The darts are golden and the length of the forearm. He fires them from his large sleeve in successive shots of about 10 or 15 as if he were Gambit firing cards. The arrows and his bow are like the advancement of his darts and, as mentioned, are fired with perfect aim and devastating power.**

2\. **His sceptre. I'm not certain how durable the Tin Banishment Catalyst is IG but I acted as if the thing was damn impervious (unlike my blunder with Havel's Dragontooth. Thanks for the rectification Mr. Jesse), however, it isn't. He just used it to block certain direct attacks and smash kakuja Argon to the floor (heh, kakuja… see what I did there?).**

3\. **His strength. Gwyndolin may be a slender son of Gwyn that doesn't fight with his fists and a sword but he's still a god/deity/whatever. Being's with souls that powerful aren't slouches when it comes to physical strength. Besides… the guy is two and a half times the size of the CU (Chosen Undead, not Caren Underhill) so I would expect such force from a fist that size.**

4\. **His snakes. Now, I've always been interested about these little guys bundled under his gown. We can already speculate that they aren't his real feet because, let's face it, that's bloody cruel of FromSoftware to do. Anyways, since the sun is an illusion that has traits so real its bloody frightening, the same should be so for his serpent slop's (ooh, nice name!). I also wanted to seem like they were a living extension of Gwyndolin's own lifeforce which is why they have a shared mental link with the Darkmoon Lord and they're able to fight independent of his commands. And they also possess venom… because duh, they're large ass snakes.**

· **His 'Awakening', if you could call it that, comes from his inability to act from a young age due to his isolation as the last born of his father. Think about it like this: Feminine-looking son is born at the time of the Moon. His father thinks that's wrong and not 'manly' enough, so he puts son in care of handmaidens to be raised as a girl because of the 'signs'. Son grows up an introvert since everybody thinks he's a wiredo when really, he's just a genius of his time that saves the entire damn kingdom when the chips fall. Due to him taking the 'back-seat' throughout his life and watching as each member of his family either dies or leaves, he gains this mindset that he's a caged bird with the heavy weight of those before him to carry besides his own (which is basically true). Thus, he see's undead and their freedom, along with humanity that he imagines as this revolutionary force he needs to live his way and make the choices he wanted to make from the beginning.**

**NOW! (*gasp) Dammit that was a long explanation. When he fights abyssal Argon and gains what little wisdom he can from a maniac that loves BDSM suddenly, he realizes he's actually been free this entire time. His thinking was just shackled to believing that he was a caged bird. He then gains the determination to best Argon and bring him back to his senses because he's like, the first human besides Tarkus to gain his respect and trust (even though the Iron Tank didn't make it passed the painting).**

* * *

**Ze Explanation: Argon **

· **The flashbacks that send our hero into his corrupted rage comes from two points. **

1\. **By this point, you all know that Lithecore _is_ Argon. Whilst Argon displays this aloof and jolly outlook on life, his Darkwraith counterpart is the opposite; resembling this collected persona of a deadly killer with a twisted sense of humour. The memories Argon receives of his past life are like a jumpstart to the brain, making him take on this wild, wrathful body of rage that you would find in a subordinate of Lord Stein.**

2\. **Due to Argon's already messed up head after fighting Lautrec, he's also influenced by the Abyss. What the flashbacks did was turn that mental instability into an advantage by flooding his mind with red. So basically, here he was like Artorias – albeit, without the purple goo and dark aura.**

· **To clarify some things about Argon while Abyssal (Thank you for bringing this up Raven): **

1\. **When you face Artorias IG he's a bloody difficult enemy to kill if you're a mage, thus the possible problem some of you may have thought there would be in this fight. However, also note that when we face the Abysswalker, he's in full armour, has a hell of a lot of HP and is unhinged since he's basically insane. Argon, on the other hand isn't entirely like that. He's also gone mad and possesses a masochistic side that enjoys pain, I've mentioned it somewhere, and he's abyssal so he has _some_ resistance to magic, not _complete_ resistance. **

2\. **Also, he fights half nude that aids him in his mobility and increased agility, so no physical buffs against magic and physical attacks, he's just berserk. **

3\. **Since he's still an undead, by game standards he also has a low HP gauge very much like Gwyndolin, so they're square on that. **

4\. **The only reason he was seemingly unstoppable was because he was insane, he possessed a mild abyssal buff and he was using the fighting style of the Lithecore's, which I didn't really explain properly. Sorry again.**

· **As for any outside help, that's a negative due to Lithecore invading the Great Hall. Lithecore was only there to observe the battle at first. Whatever his 'plans' involve, require the undead to come to his 'awakening'. His interruption after Argon was killed the first time was due to him realizing that his 'twin' wasn't ready yet, so he went to claim the wounded Gwyndolin's soul since it would have been a plus for him whether the god was dead anyways.**

* * *

**The relation between Argon, Stein's influence and Faith: **

· **First of all, I'd like to congratulate Mr. Jesse for pointing that tid-bit out from the get-go.**

· **As he's said before, Stein's ideals seem to have been hammered into him thoroughly, the proof is that he was under the maniac's 'reconditioning' for _years_ instead of the usual few nights or a month. Tops.**

· **Now, if you were to look at three things, you would see something very interesting about Argon.**

1\. **As normal happy-go-lucky undead, he shows a dislike to the gods from the beginning. His reasoning is that they 'haven't done a thing to help him' so he doesn't choose to trust or believe in them at all.**

2\. **As younger, Lithecore Commander Argon, even though he was hard-wired to have all gods beheaded and kill their followers, he's also rebellious compared to the others in the League. Despite this, Lord Stein _still_ makes him the Commander without a second thought, not even considering that this refusal to obey blindly might be his undoing.**

3\. **This is the interesting one. If you count Argon's spells over the story, he has about five to six slots. The Oolacile invisibility, the Great Fireball, the Great Firestorm, the Soul Spear, Great Magic Barrier and one or two more I may have forgotten (don't judge me, I've been overthinking, so I'm allowed to forget). If you think of the level of faith he needs to possess than many slots (or am I confusing that with intelligence?) and the Faith he needs to use some of those spells, don't you think that for an extremist trying to kill all gods and act like an atheist, his stats contradict that? The only question therein, is _what_ is he faithful to that we don't know and _why_ does he show such hypocritical levels of it? You'd think that a person like him – Lithecore mindset or not – he would have like, what, level 10-11 Faith? Curious, is it not?**

* * *

**Aaaand lastly a few short things:**

**The magical ring system – In DS 1, we're only allowed to wear two rings at a time, which is ludacris when you see just how many there are. I took this annoying lore and turned it into something believable. Since the undead body in general is a warehouse to store a ton of souls, deck itself out like the feared Giantdad we all know and love and take on the form of a makeshift Lord Soul itself after claiming all 4 and Gwyn's, the human body is still that; human. While its able to carry strong souls, it's not the best built 'vessel' for an overload of magic, potential aside.**

**I'll add the rest of this explanation in another chapter, possibly the next one if I can.**

**Yes, I used a Hollywood Undead reference as one of Argon's monologues and irrational rants. Got the inspiration from a rather… darker part of my teenage years – bloody peer pressure.**

**As for the pm-system it better stray far, far, _far_ away from me or else it'll find a worm devouring its shabby coding. For those of you trying to get a hold of me via that blasted system, I regret to inform you that I really have not received anything in my inbox yet and I'm truly sorry that you have to share this frustration with me.**

**As for those of you who've offered other platforms for me to explain parts of my story and whatnot, I thank you and will definitely make use of it when time avails itself to me.**

**For now, I need your advice, faithful readers. I've got two avenues I can take the next chapter into: one where Argon and gang head to slay Seath so the whole prison break scenario can begin. And the other is one whereby Argon goes his separate way for now whilst Havel and Priscilla head for Seath. His 'unhinged' state of mind needs to develop, and self-introspection might help with that. Or perhaps what he needs is some TLC from a certain cross breed and a fatherly, if not grouchy, Havel so that Argon's identity crisis can end on a good note?**

**So, if you have any ideas or you want to choose an avenue I've listed above, please send me a review (and I mean _everyone_ able to reply to this request please)**

**This author's note is officially the longest one I've ever written to date and I really do hope I'll never have to do it again. I know I can't shut up, but this story is about the content, not my explanations, 'ya know?**

**SO! I might have messed up the Arc here and there but for the most part, I feel like I did pretty well. Hope you all enjoyed!**

**Oyasumi! (*collapses from exhaustion)**


	18. Chapter 18

**For the second time since forever, I thought I should put in that annoyingly cliché disclaimer stating that I, mihairu7(the 7 is silent, _always_ silent), do in no way own the game, art, IP (intellectual property) or plot of Dark Souls. Why you ask? Well because FromSoftware does, that's why.**

**-_are you done yet?_ **

**Ah! I see you're finally awake after a week of snoozing.**

**-_no thanks to you, that's for sure. (*clips mihairu7's head with a fist)_ **

**Ugh! Okay, I kinda deserved that. But look at it this way, at least you were able to rid yourself of your insomnia, right?**

**-_that is true… now hurry up and address what we needed to._ **

**Alrighto! What's on the agenda today besides that comment about killing traps? Say, what's a trap again?**

**_-Seriously?_ **

**Baha! I'm just pulling your leg, I would never kill someone so important just to make the story look better, that's literary suicide!**

**_-the next item is about reviews and author's notes (*peers at unrolled sheet of parchment)_ **

**Ah, yes, what of them?**

**-_well, besides the fact that you can't spell ludicrous correctly, you made the last a/u too. Damn. Long._ **

**Aha (*breaks out in cold sweat) sorry about that. Although I do love to insert 'ze explanations', that last one was just too long, 3k in length, actually. While I enjoy explaining the whirlpools of ideas in my head, I don't want to bore people who just want to read ze story already. As for the terrrrrrrible spelling error, I would blame my mental fatigue but that was just inexcusable. Gomen nasai! (*bows)**

**-_The penultimate is why you were away for so long._ **

**Work, college and the turning of a new decade, baby! Yeah!**

**-_Ah, I'll just write 'lacklustre motivation to write' over here then…_ **

**_Oi! I'll have you know I had already written out nearly 4k in word count when reality hit me like a truck. That is in no way lazy!_**

**-_and lastly, you don't like long reviews._ **

**BLASPHEMY! Who said that? Let me at 'em!**

**-_no one said that besides me, now behave (*smashes plate on mihairu7's head as the extras in the background cheer)_ **

**AYE!**

**-_he actually loves long reviews, so please don't hold back since he's also friendly to flames, the damn freak. Honestly, he gushes at the notification of ANY review. How pathetic, its no wonder he doesn't have any friends._ **

**_Don't you go airing out my torn laundry when you ARE me! I have friends but they're all overseas and busy is all…_**

**-_wow_… _with that reaction people might actually believe me for a change 0_0_ **

**Ah, shut up! On with ze story!**

* * *

The sun… was nice enough in her opinion. She wouldn't deny its warm rays and golden splendour for that would be both stupidity and negligence. It was important for her to realize the beauty in all things despite their obvious ugliness – like the fact that whilst the sun was warm to stand under, it would burn you to a crisp were you to overindulge in its generosity.

In retrospect, she enjoyed the rain much better. It would obscure the bright and optimistic sun with its heavy cloud-cover and deep shadows, soak the dry and cracked ground with the bounty it held within its breast and heal the damaged land from the pervasive attitude the sun always seemed to possess. At the same time, it had its own healing properties to people; like calming a tense atmosphere, cooling hot emotions and filling even the morose with a sense of wonder at how mystifying the simple scintillant drops of liquid air really was.

Then again, its not like the pluviophile**1** had even seen the slightest trace of cracked earth over the few decades – or were they actually centuries – that she had spent living in Anor Londo. Whilst the sun forever blinded her after gazing up at it for a few paltry seconds, the smooth stone floors and various levels that separated the lower land from its upper half had never once tasted the test of time. Although the sun's rays where known to bleach anything and everything under its light, strangely the crisp walls never lost their creamy hue. What was even more fascinating was the fact that no matter how many times she stood stationary under those holy spotlights, for countless hours no less, not a drop of sweat would form on her brow despite her heavy brass armour.

Thinking technically however, would she even be able to sweat given her body's… condition? Either way, it was an odd thing being under such a powerful illusion by her Lord.

Once she had wondered if lowering that glorious misapprehension would help in brining forth a deluge of watery wonder but had immediately shook her head at the stupidity of that reasoning; you needed heat for rain to arrive in the first place. Although now that she thought about it, even when the sun had gone down the sky was always clear without a single cloud in sight. That didn't stop her from carrying a fleeting wish that such a blessing would arrive, however. It was a foolish hope she kept in her bosom, but she had done the same thing religiously for Gwyn knows how long now. Staring at the night sky with her helm off, hands clasped and heart expectant for that distant roar in the distant signifying the coming of nature's cool embrace. In all honesty, her hopes would fare better in the Undead Burg, where the only petrichor**2 **to inhale was the glittering ash falling onto the tar-stained buildings and floors.

She wasn't that apathetic that she wouldn't realize her own childishness, but one had to argue that when you spent so much time under an illusion so fake it was real, the hallucination that the season's effects might arrive spontaneously wasn't that far-fetched. Of course, when thinking about Lord Gwyndolin himself, his magic and ability to warp reality was hardly any hallucination. He was a master of his craft and a genius with a mind far beyond his time. Simply calling the power he imbued into the very skies of Lordran a simple illusion or hoax was practically a profanity to his mighty name.

Yet, after all her time in service to the Darkmoon Lord as both a Blade and Keeper, she had to wonder whether Lordran was just so cursed that even the rain had shied away from it. Perhaps it, like many undead that had come to the land, were just so fearful of falling under a gravitational force of unfathomed wickedness that all it could do to escape defilement was meander around the once great kingdom altogether.

The brass-keeper sighed as she adjusted her position against the alabaster wall stained with soft reflections of amber, onyx and red. Maybe she would never be able to see the rain ever again? Maybe by her remaining a Keeper of the bonfire she was just damning herself to some endless loop of stagnation and idleness; forever vexed with her wayward thoughts? She hated the thought, yet similarly didn't mind it altogether. Anything was better than the suffering she endured before her Lord had found her.

_Suffering…_ an unhinged way to live in pain without relief. An agony inescapable. Much like the life of the undead that had come into her chamber not long ago. If anyone wanted to know what true suffering was all about, he was the only one worthy enough to answer such a question. It was no secret to her what his future entailed since Lord Gwyndolin had seen it fit to make his dependents aware of his plan; there weren't many of Darkmoon Blades anyways. Whilst she didn't admire the way in which her master was going to bring about Lordran's revival, she knew he must not have had a choice; especially with that rancid beast whispering in his ear as if his opinion meant anything now that Lord Gwyn was gone, and Anor Londo with him.

Still, when she uncharacteristically used the meek reserves of sympathy she possessed towards the Chosen Undead, she had to admire his spirit and determination. From what information she and her companions had managed to gather about him – which was barely anything but hearsay – it was clear that Argon was if anything, a nobody in every sense imaginable.

He possessed no redeeming features linking him to any nation despite that his skin tone and battle style appeared to circle around Carim, if he had been a man that was as knowledgeable as a sage then he hid it well with that idiotic spiel of his; and from what a dejected knight in worn chainmail had said, Argon had only chosen to accept the quest after his rescuer had 'anti-climactically bitten the dust during his exodus'.

Usually unknowns were considered dark territory since their motives were anything but honourable due to their past. Her master had preferred to look at the Estus flask half full, however, stating that being the Chosen Undead held no relation to whether one was of noble standing or not. She had accepted his words – even if she _had_ mentally scoffed at the answer – and thought little of it after that. In actuality, she knew Lord Gwyndolin probably just accepted the fact that _someone_ had managed to enter the kingdom after the first had fallen off a ceiling beam and to his hollowed demise.

Even so, when thinking about the undead and how far he had come – going as far as to free her master's niece on his journey – she pondered on whether the task set for all worthy undead was just too harrowing to finish. Possessing the power to defeat all four of Lord Gwyn's allies was daunting, there was no doubt that if you didn't harvest an unbridled might within you then the chances of success in acquiring a Lord Soul was slim. However, the physical challenge the quest posed wasn't what managed to creep through her armour like amorphous fingers and latch onto the heart she had forgotten she possessed; it was the psychological trauma of it all.

Thinking back onto how Argon had appeared and behaved was proof of her spontaneous need to worry…

* * *

_The flames of her fire never stuttered, that much was an absolute no other Keeper could attest to. Whether trouble or peace, the swirling tongues of auburn would never rupture their slow, lazy approach towards the white ceiling above. That was why she was on guard when her passive bonfire had suddenly begun to writhe and collapse in on itself, as if it was struggling to contain something, or someone._

_She watched with narrowed eyes, a hand on the hilt of her dagger as the flames sputtered and spun violently, flicking against the ground, walls and stairs; wrestling with this unseen beast. For a moment she thought the coiled sword itself would be uprooted as the embers and ashes below it shuddered roughly. Her chamber was a mess of noise and flickering shadows until suddenly everything when still before a loud roar shook the foundations of the square room._

_The brass-Keeper flinched as the volume caused her head to spin before she witnessed a body flash into focus as it thumped against the ground, bouncing against the tiles before hitting the wall. It took her a moment to realize the hollowed body lying on the floor and breathing raggedly was Argon, and it was only when she dropped out of her fighting stance and approached the now calm bonfire that he rose to a sitting position, wrinkled skin half covered in what seemed like black tendrils._

_The undead remained panting breathlessly there as she returned to leaning against the wall._

_"So you've come back alone, I see… and shirtless."_

_Argon seemed not to hear her over his deep gasping, or he was just ignoring her. She merely shrugged and continued to watch the flames slowly dance around the coppery coiled sword whilst keeping him in her periphery. If he had any knew secrets it would be wise for her to observe or listen to him before reporting it to Lord Gwyndolin; although if she knew her master, he was probably already aware that Argon was with her._

_It had been a shock to see the Archbishop with him when he had arrived, and an even greater surprise to see the princess donned in the clothing of a Velkian pardoner. Although she hadn't had the pleasure of being alive when Havel the Rock was exiled, tales of his might and imposing stature was legendary. Lord Gwyndolin himself had even spoken about how much he had respected him after staring down Seath the Scaleless without batting an eye. To see the same man here in the very castle he had been exiled from, alive and still cognitive had been something of a treasured moment to her – even if she hid it well behind her indifferent personality._

_"You look dreadful, rest a while." she said, as he reversed his hollowed form. It was only after his wrinkled skin had turned back to pallor muscle that a particular scent had hit her like a bash from a sentinel's shield._

_After establishing her covenant with Lord Gwyndolin, she had been tasked with finding and punishing those had had angered or sinned against the gods. Utilizing eye-orbs was the best way to find those deemed guilty before putting them to the sword. However, there was also a particular scent sin's against divinity carried, whether small or large; a distinct smell that was unlike any other. It was indescribable yet specific, the very same one she smelt on the Chosen Undead before her that made her senses spark into a flurry of danger signals._

_"Putrid…" Argon growled through gritted teeth as he kneeled before the fire, glaring darkly as the light illuminated his half-covered face and heterochromatic eyes. "Filthy, vile, unforgivable…"_

_The Keeper pushed off from the wall carefully and rested a hand once again against her dagger. "Argon…" she flinched in both surprise and shock at the animalistic gleam he directed towards her. It was as if the jovial undead she had seen not long ago was purged from existence. In fact, it was also the first time her wary eyes had seen his fully uncovered face. She didn't need to possess any apathy to agree that this mad visage didn't fit someone with naturally handsome features._

_"He killed me… impaled my mind, ripped out my eyes and broke my skull. Hands and blue fire, snakes that grew dire… they all taunted me, mocked me and laughed as I fell. He **marked** me, stained me, blemished me with his filthy hands!" the Keeper could only watch as Argon punched the floor in uncharacteristic anger, cringing when she heard both his fist and the tile crack loudly. She would have moved to draw her weapons, but she was frozen by the crazed glare she was locked with. His muscles kept tensing it was if he was daring her to make a move, waiting for her to initiate a fight he knew she would lose. The Keeper was no stranger to combat, she had fought countless battles for her life and come out scarred or exhausted, and knew she was no slouch when it came to battle. However, staring at those amber and violet orbs placed a fear in her that she hadn't felt since she was human; a primal, sinister fear that forced to flee even though her mind knew she should stand her ground and fight._

_"I'll return the favour, I'll rectify his **mistake**!" as Argon rose, the brass-Keeper involuntarily took a step back, still locked in a staring contest with the undead as he placed his tendril-covered hand against the hilt of the coiled sword. "Undead can revive and anger can manifest into **rage** if left alone. But can **sinners** be allowed a second chance? **No… **they lost that choice when they were blindly led towards the path of greed, lust and adversity towards the weak."_

_The flames once again writhed against some invisible strain placed on them as they enveloped Argon, who grinned maniacally at her as his body was whisked away to the destination of his desire; but not before he finished his monologue to nobody in particular._

_"So like those unnecessary snakes with wings, all sinners must be **snuffed out**… don't you agree?"_

_He never waited for an answer as the flames absorbed him into their depths, leaving a quiet room behind. The brass-Keeper simply sighed in relief as she crashed to her knees, breathing heavily as the murderous intent Argon carried departed with him._

* * *

She shivered at the memory the undead left behind and glanced at the stairway leading towards the castle itself.

For both Argon's sake and those around him, she prayed he would be able to stand up to the trying test her Lord had concocted. For if someone as powerful and unflappable as Argon couldn't save Lordran, then no one could.

* * *

He had said it. Exorcised the demon, performed an ablution, pointed out the drake in the room; he had done it all with the most composed face and demeanour he could muster despite the shame in his chest and the guilt that sucker punched him in the ribs like a blow from Smough's great hammer. It had been so nerve-wracking that he had recast his serpentine illusion as a form of comfort.

And with every word, event and action he had explained in extremely vivid detail, he saw the respect his niece had for him diminish bit by bit, the rage in Havel increase second by second, and Argon's impassive stare grow into agonizing intensity. He didn't even know why he had agreed to open his closet of a million skeletons for an undead he had been forced to kill and bring back to pseudo-sanity twice, but here they all were. He would have loved to blame it on his bad luck, Velka's supposed interference or even that damned fool dripping with the blessings of Fina, but he knew the truth all to well in the midst of his house of lies. The reason he had been brought to this unfortunate ending, this oblique scenario standing near a precarious ledge was due to his own folly. It would have been pure stupidity to play his hand ignorant now when he was caught with his hands in the proverbial Lordvessel, anyways.

And so, here he was standing before an archbishop with an aggressive personality, a cross breed that could drain his divine soul of all life even if they _were_ related by blood; and an ironically still nonchalant Chosen Undead that had tried to carve his snakes into material for kindling. Personally, he was just glad that rancid snake, Frampt wasn't here to justify his means to an end as if it was expected of him; that would just be a tragedy that would land his head impaled on the bottom of Havel's Dragontooth.

He continued to stare down the trio before him as they processed, broke down, over-thought and regurgitated his words into looks of disdain, disappointment and shock – and monotony if he counted Argon's blank look. He didn't blame them for creating this uncomfortable silence that now resided in the area. If he were in their shoes, he would probably also have stood there motionless to brew the machinations of a failed successor to the Throne. Yet he wouldn't understand how his champion, the one that _should _be affected the most by all this revealed blade in the shadows, was as collected as a Stone Giant. If anything, he should be twice as angry as the ex-bishop, overly untrusting compared to Pricilla's state of appal – possibly as insane as he was a short time ago.

Instead he merely stared at Gwyndolin's covered face blankly before scoffing and pulling on an odd coat of dark leather, straps, a high collar and small knives hidden in various pockets and sleeves dotted around inside the supposed set of… armour. The Lord of the Darkmoon wasn't the only one confused and perturbed by the undeads behaviour; it seemed Havel had removed his helm to frown in outrage whilst Priscilla had attempted to approach the man to assess whether his battle had destroyed his ability to comprehend properly. However his companions reacted to such an action of dismissal, Argon seemed not to care in the slightest as he gently moved out of the goddess's reach and motioned towards the lifts on either ends of the room.

"We're leaving." He said simply and turned to gaze at Priscilla. She flinched at the monotone look he gave her, her own eyes straying away from his heterochromatic orbs for some reason. "Not like there's any reason to stay, we got our questions answered."

"Did your battle rattle out what dregs of common sense you have left?" Argon turned his head to Havel, his mouth set in a snarl towards the undead. Whilst it might have been possible for him to brush off Priscilla like some fluffy cobweb, it was going to be a different story when regarding the heavyset man in armour. The bishop may have acted blind towards his companions' personal issues but when those issues correlated with the fate of the world, he was religiously devoted to say the least.

"You were just told the reason for this quest and you're going to walk away?! Where's your courage, boy? Are you content to allow the masses of undead living here perish like the rest!?" Havel screamed, closing the gap between himself and the Chosen Undead. "What happened to your exuberance now, eh? Was your entire personality of irritating humour and nerve-wracking arguments simply a charade to gain our trust? What's the matter with you?!"

Argon switched his gaze to a worried cross breed standing behind the crackling bonfire. She looked like she wanted to step in but there was apprehension in her body, debating on whether to choose a side between the uncle that lied to her or the Chosen Undead that would eventually die for her. It was a cruel thing to do to the woman, Argon agreed, but at this point her stagnation needed to end. She had spent far too much time as an obedient sheep following a scapegoat.

Though it was her original decision to follow him, and her obedience was far more rewarding than her sacrifice, things were vastly different now after the scenario had begun to become more interesting. At this moment in time she was at a terribly forked road that only led to dismay anyways. Argon pondered how she would determine her sad eventuality; living a lie upon a fake throne of gold, with an uncle that had let his own idiocy carve out his fate; or siting before the opened, deserted doors of the Kiln, on her knees with handfuls of his body turned to ash in her pretty hands.

It was sad, bleak, morose. But she had to decide either way. None of this was her fault but he couldn't feel it in him to tell her that; it would be a waste of words when she stands motionless outside of those ancient doors watching him become the successor of Cinder – or whatever fem-boy had called it.

Then again, _would_ she be left alone when _he_ had also been privy to the sad, dark truth? A smile fought to break out on his face at the thought.

Havel was beyond appalled. This undead was not the Argon he knew and respected as a worthy adversary. The Argon he knew possessed empathy and integrity despite his obvious flaws and childish ignorance. Yet when he looked at the undead in front of him, speaking as if he was content to allow the world to keel over and die, he knew that those blank but glowing eyes belonged his comrade. It was taboo to think about, but what if the joyful man in the tower had been nothing but a farce the entire time? A mask like the one he always wore to obscure the diseased truth behind it. Whether it was true or not, he couldn't stand idly by and allow him to treat humanity like the gods had. He would be sure to rectify his mistake long ago by not acting sooner.

"Well? Aren't you going to answer me you sad excuse of a man?" Argon looked back at Havel, his blank expression contrasting against the Archbishop's vexed growling before he smirked lightly.

"I thought speaking to inanimate objects was something only the insane did."

The tips of Havel's ears grew to a vibrant red and it almost looked like there was steam coming out from them as he ground his teeth at his companion. He was all for petty arguments and little squabbles when they held no sway in a normal conversation, but the undead was really rubbing him up the wrong petrified tree. The man acted like he didn't give a damn about the sullied history explained to him mere moments ago. Maybe that battle with Gwyndolin had taken away what minute sense of reasoning Argon had left, which was the reason for his indifference. If so, perhaps if he 'helpfully' gave the Chosen Undead a few 'light' knocks on the head with his Dragontooth, he would be brought out of his idiotic spiel?

With that in mind, Havel took a step forward to administer a healthy dose of 'medication'.

"Go wait downstairs Havel." the bishop stopped mid-step and looked at Argon with a frown. The peon dared to order _him_ around? Havel wondered how shallow he would have to make the undeads grave when he beat him and his arrogant face into a pale floormat.

"And take Priscilla with you, the adults need to talk." at the mention of her name, said cross breed turned her worried gaze at her saviour. As much as she would have liked to argue, whine, complain or berate him for fighting the last known member of her family; a glance at Argon's monotone face made her rethink her options as a cold shiver ran down her spine. For once that happy face that she had only seen smile and laugh when in dire situations was staring down distastefully at Havel. His now fully clothed body was tensing and relaxing continuously as if preparing for another round of brawling, and his eyes that had been so full of life glowed in the dim corridor like cold flames on a wall bracket.

It was true that she had been travelling with Argon for quite some time now, but in all reality, she still didn't know more than a crumb about him. Outside of the jolly persona he wore – which she questioned whether it was truly genuine after looking at him now – she had never really gotten to know the darker, instinctual version of the man she held feelings for. Argon still displayed his alexithymia**3** unconsciously despite being around people he could trust, which wasn't much of a red flag considering the nature of a person's secrecy when in a land brimming with more than just hollows and monsters.

However, when she took a look at the man she saw standing before herself, Havel and her uncle; she wondered if the real reason Argon hadn't opened up was because his unclosed truth _was_ the animalistic visage currently staring Havel down.

"Why you arrogant kn-"

"I said _go_." she flinched as if struck against the cheek. Argon had _never_ used that tone before or glared like that before. It was primarily because he was never the blood-thirsty undead his enemies believed him to be. She knew him to be sweet, kind and jolly; however, what she saw now was cold, indifferent and dangerous. It was as if another person had just stepped into his monochrome skin and taken command of his body.

"The last time I checked," Havel said, containing what little compose he had, "I didn't take orders from you. This _is_ a party after all, and not a band of soldiers."

"Well, unless you want me to show you who's daddy… you'll wait downstairs."

Argon and Havel stared one another off. Priscilla had her hands squeezing the leather of her bodice and Gwyndolin… was Gwyndolin, calmly staring at it all without a single judgement. He watched Argon's companions stay their ground for a few minutes more before eventually giving up to their black and white companion's steely gaze. Havel huffed for a moment and directed a snarl at the god before approaching a lift that would better accommodate his size. As for Priscilla, she spent the remainder of her time contemplating on how to react to everything that had just played out, before sighing in defeat and walking towards the lift on the opposite end of the room. She spared her uncle a brief glance and Gwyndolin felt more guilt creep into his heart at that shattered look of hers. He would have opened his mouth to say something but lost the opportunity when she disappeared from sight as the lift descended.

All the same, the Darkmoon Lord couldn't prevent the sigh that escaped his lips. That had been both unbearable and relieving for him. Unbearable because he had to explain to his champion, his niece and his father's former comrade his dastardly plan. And relieved because after so many centuries of bottling his emotions over such events, he was _finally_ able to let some of them free. Subsequently, he was slightly winded. That had been the first time in actual centuries whereby he had spoken more than two sentences in a day to more than a single person. He admitted that it felt… good somehow, but he had to focus on the consequences of his actions right now.

The fact that he had told Argon the truth was both a terrible idea and act of good faith; however, he would be able to breathe better without a halberd piercing his chest now that he had given something new to the undead; a right to choose.

Of course, Argon already possessed the freewill to choose and would have probably decided his own alternate route regarding the Kiln even without his intervention. That being said, now at least the undead would possess a clearer vision when deciding his fate. It wasn't the least he could for him, but it was all he could think about currently.

"If you're waiting for me to say you're forgiven, you might as well just bend over and allow me to kill you." Gwyndolin brushed aside his thoughts as he considered the Chosen Undead.

"**I do not wish to be comforted, merely understood in my methods.**"

"So I'm supposed to understand and accept why I have to burn for eternity so you can sit on your feminine ass for another millennium? Just how proud are you that you think burdening humanity further is a noble deed?" Argon raised an eyebrow at Gwyndolin as he took a step forward. "And give me my goddamn sword back, or are you planning to tear me a new one with that revised use of pine resin?"

The god looked down at the sword in his hand. The blade was clean, without a spot of blood even after it had severed Argon in half not long ago. It was to be expected, however; considering the strength of the spell he had used against his champion was enough to level a forest with a few swings. The blood would have simply dripped off the blade anyways since it was made of Lordrian steel. Borgus had been so meticulous in his craft that the weapons the Silver Knights used were never sullied by the blood of their foes, as opposed to the nightmarish tools of their black-suited counterparts.

Without any hesitation, Gwyndolin handed the sword to one of his snakes. Said reptile grasped the hilt and slithered forward until it was a foot in front of Argon. The undead merely raised his blackened hand under the snake's jaw before catching the sword as the snake released it from its grasp. Argon gave the sleek weapon a gentle smile as he sheathed it.

"Come to daddy." He said before turning on his heel and walking off the platform Ornstein had once stood garrison at.

Gwyndolin raised a hand to stop him but Argon was already on the lower level of the Throne Room, steadily approaching the Great Hall where Havel stood brooding in the centre of it all, his arms crossed.

With a quick use of his teleportation, the god flashed behind Argon's retreating form, his hand once more raised. "**Argon, wait. We have not ended our discus-**"

"What's there left to talk about, Gwyndolin?" the god froze at the plain question. He was correct, what _was_ there left to speak on? He had already told the undead everything, endured numerous questions – if shouting, threats and blasphemies against his name could be called mere questions – from both his niece and Havel, _and_ nearly had his life taken when Argon went berserk. If anything, there should be more wallowing in shame on his side that he had allowed things to play out this way – even if most of it was out of his control – but Argon didn't need to know that-

"You should spend the remainder of the day brewing on how pathetic you are for letting things go to this way."

-unless Argon _already_ knew about that bit of information. He sighed softly as Argon turned away from his again to pick up the discarded weapons he had dropped in their battle. The Darkmoon Lord watched him in silence as he procrastinated on what to say next. As calm as his face may have seemed at the moment, his mind was aflutter with worry over what he could do to fix the grave he had just dug himself. However, since his mind was filled with uncertainty on what to say and confusion on why he wanted to say anything at all; the only thoughts that were the first to cross his cerebellum was the state the Throne Room was in.

He knew his battle with Argon had been intense and he hadn't been merciful in his approach to the maddened undead but… the floor looked as if it had been carpeted a deep crimson, and the walls and pillars were pock-marked with holes, burn marks from spells and the occasional outline of Argon's lithe physique. He wasn't even joking – not that he had ever joked – when he said that the stairs were flooded. There was just… a _lot_ of blood.

"I don't hate you, if that's what you're struggling to ask me." Gwyndolin turned his head towards Argon as he placed the fragments of his Demon Hammer in one of his pouches. The Darkmoon Lord's mouth opened to reply but again, no sound escaped – just warm air.

"I hate what you've done, sure. But I don't hate _you_. Even though you've sentenced me to everlasting suffering despite proving myself to be the Chosen Undead, the sins of the father are not something I can blame you for."

A weight seemed to lift from the Darkmoon Lord's chest at that. After badgering himself continuously for well over a thousand years he knew, deep in his weak and wounded heart, that he was not entirely to blame for the fall of Lordran, the curse to humanity, loss of his own people. It was as if Argon was both angelic and demonic in his treatment towards Gwyndolin. But those few words moved heaven and earth for the lonely god.

"But I'm still not lighting that fire."

Immediately, the weight that lifted from Gwyndolin's chest fell back down with greater force than before. It was so great, in fact, that the feminine male found himself almost toppling onto the floor – that is, if his snakes hadn't found it necessary to push back against his less than significant weight at that very moment. He let out a shaky breath before snapping his head to Argon's position so fast, the undead thought he might get whiplash.

"**What does thou mean by that statement? Does the act of succeeding my father not decree thou responsible to linking the Flame and preserving the Age of Fire?!"**

For the first time in what seemed like forever, Gwyndolin heard Argon laugh. It wasn't one of those insane cackles that had torn the corners of his mouth and pained the ears… but a soft, warm sound. When said noise had reached the Darkmoon Lord's ears, he had had to strain his hearing to listen to it. He looked at the undead, his champion and Chosen One as he calmly walked up to the god.

The afternoon sun cascaded through the smooth glass, placing the room in an amber glow. Gwyndolin noted how his grand illusion wrapped around the thin veins coating Argon's right side like pitch-black armour. It was as if the darkness of the veins were absorbing the light and growing thicker; yet, as the bright hues latched onto the undeads arm, Gwyndolin could make out the small gaps betwixt the veins, showing pale, white skin beneath. It almost looked like he was wearing the shadows themselves on his right side.

"I'll admit, you've got me stuck between a rock and a hard place; or in this case, Havel and Blighttown." The god snorted; Argon grinned in return.

"But I don't intend on letting you false gods rest on filigreed chairs as if you've earned it," he placed a hand on his hip and stared up at the god before him. There was no malice behind those multi-coloured eyes or hatred, merely understanding. It was strange and oddly normal, considering the bedlam that the two men had just gone through not long ago. "yet at the same time, I don't intend on letting the world grow as dark as this empty space you call home. Humanity, lesser and greater beings don't deserve to suffer from the actions of a single, selfish race."

Gwyndolin nodded once in agreement, the remainder of the world didn't deserve the turmoil that followed after another dwindling of the First Flame. Inversely, there was still one matter that needed obvious debate. Like how Argon intended to keep the First Flame burning without offering his soul to it like his father had long ago. Currently, there was no other option one could take when deciding the fate of the Kiln and the world itself. There were just two avenues; relink it and preserve the Age of Fire for another millennia – if not more – or allow it to die and usher in the Age of Man.

Whilst the second option was something his father was repulsed by, the Darkmoon Lord could see the positives within the stereotype. Humanity ruling over the world wasn't necessarily a bad idea given that the majority of the world was made up of human souls. However, with the rise of Man came the insurgence of the Abyss. Man was a powerful adversary and a terrifying enemy. Yet, only few were strong enough to best the temptation of the Abyss, Argon was… well, he hoped he was proof of that strength.

His point was that there would be only so much peace before a single ruler of humanity would fall short of their predecessors' glory and accept the invitation to damnation. Whilst the gods weren't any better when it came to dominion, they would ensure the Abyss would never spread but remain an inkling of its former self. When considering the lesser of two evil's, which intellectual mind wouldn't choose the Age of Fire? It was currently a safer option, after all.

"**A method untravelled is one thou tred upon. It will be difficult to find what thou seek' eth.**"

"I know that. But it's the only conclusion I'll accept."

"**It will be a wearisome journey. Thou may fall before the final hurdle.**"

"Worse than what I've already been through?" Argon raised his eyebrow, a smirk lifting his mouth. Gwyndolin offered a smile of his own in return and the undead nearly did a double take on how warm the gesture seemed. In fact, this was probably the first time he had seen the feminine male offer more than a cocky grin – not that he could complain. In any case, Argon smiled wider, his eyes closing as he showed his teeth.

"There is no rest for the wicked. I'm sure I'll manage… somewhat."

"**And is thine mind fit for departure? Remember that my niece and bishop stand alongside thou."**

A sad look graced the undeads features as he looked at the ground. It was a look the god knew well since he had possessed the same crisis for centuries, a sense of self-identity.

"Honestly, I don't know… I know that I became someone different after killing Lautrec, and that I had these ideals I hadn't known even existed until I fought you. But after I was returned to the flames those ideals and that drive seemed to fade…

"Don't get me wrong, I still feel like killing you. But… at the same time I'm unsure if doing so will bring me some sort of relief or sadness. In my mind I'm conflicted; one side calls you a sinner, and the other calls you a friend. I still don't believe that you and your kin are worthy enough to call yourselves god's. And in the same way, I don't who I really am with all these new memories I receive as the time goes by. Perhaps it has something to do with this right side of mine…" Argon lifted a hand to cup his veined cheek. The veins themselves felt foreign to him, itchy and cold. They were like barnacle's sticking to the bottom of a ship, uncomfortably catching against the tall seaweed in the shallower areas of sea.

As he caressed some of the veins, his hand reached up and covered his violet eye. Even his sight had been affected by this strange plague that neither poisoned nor maimed his body, just his mind. He closed his left eye and peered at Gwyndolin for a moment. The same swirls and pools of colour that could never be seen before became visible, both encasing and emanating from the Darkmoon Lord's centre.

"Either way, I've still got a world to save. I'll figure it out whilst I find a way to not burn my soul ad infinitum." And with that, the current king of Anor Londo watched as his champion left his sight; long, black hair lifting in the gentle breeze as he approached his party wating in the other blood-soaked room before them.

Gwyndolin huffed. Out of all the possible undead he had watched, scouted and considered to be the One, he had never truly found someone like Argon. The first human to renounce the gods around him, seek not power but knowledge and display a will as unbendable as Artorias'.

It was an oddity, but one the god proudly called his own. One of his snakes caught his attention and he glanced downward to see it dive into his robe. His eye's widened when he saw the state of the cream fabric he wore and his cheeks took on a light shade of pink – not that one would have seen it under his oversized crown.

There were more holes in it than blood-spatters and in various places closer to his thighs, the torn fabric nearly showed an uncovered display of his pelvis. He was glad he had decided to recast his serpentine spell when Havel and Priscilla arrived.

He looked at the snake as it returned from within his robes holding something in its jaws. The sight briefly reminded him of a younger Sif carrying the Greatsword his master had gifted to him before the god turned his head back to Argon.

"**Argon**," the undead stopped and turned his head towards the god, a curious look on his face, "**do not forget this on thine travels.**" His snakes brought him closer to the Chosen Undead before the one still holding his mask extended towards Argon's chest.

The undead opened his mouth in surprise before smiling and taking the mask from the serpent's jaws. In a rather peculiar sight, Gwyndolin watched as Argon reached out with his other hand to scratch the reptile's head affectionately. It hissed softly in reply before retracting into the mass beneath the god. As the undead lifted the plain mask against his monochrome face, the god had to wonder if Argon knew that his snakes weren't actually real, but an extension of his will.

The thought left his mind, however, as Argon lifted his head to the god again to reveal a familiar sight. The mask itself was a blank thing, with nothing but double slits for eyeholes. Yet, it was something that comforted him, oddly enough. Argon eye's glowed in their different colours at him before he placed a hand over his heart and bowed respectfully. Gwyndolin returned the gesture, bending his head slightly and looking up as Argon stood to full height once more, gave the god a casual stare, and walked off; his companions in tow as they passed through the now opened doors of the Great Hall.

Gwyndolin ensured that the sentinels outside didn't attack them and when he could no longer see their forms in the light above, he allowed himself to collapse against the floor.

He panted raggedly. Those events had taken too much out of him. From the mental exertion to the physical fatigue, he was completely spent. His body had lost too much blood and his snakes were the worse for wear, with severed heads and missing scales that could have been used by Borgus if they weren't just illusions.

The Throne Room and Great Halls was also a matter he would have to fix. Besides the torrents of blood covering the walls, floor and pillars, there was also the issue of how much smaller his army had become now that Argon's party had decided to have a field day with his Knights. Not only that but he had allowed a phantom to invade the castle, a mistake Ornstein would have chastised him for if he had the authority, the poor scholar of his elder brother.

Be that as I may, the god sighed out in exhaustion. Surely his divulging of the truth would be considered as a good deed that availed him _some_ comfort at night. Dealing with Argon would have been a feat any god would have struggled with, as such; he felt was entitled to a rest.

Just as Gwyndolin was about to summon the last of his magical reserves to get him the Izalith out of his dilapidated Throne Room, his senses registered the life-force of someone that had been in the castle from the time he had been fighting Argon. He had been foolish not to have noticed it sooner, it was a dire mistake when he was currently so weak. Nevertheless, they were here, he might as well deal with them now rather than regret it later.

With a groan, Gwyndolin rose back onto his snakes, a focussed look replacing his tired features. "**Who goes there?**" he bellowed, the echo bouncing off of the walls and between the thick pillars. He sensed the intruder stop moving and he turned towards the stairs connecting the Great Hall to the Throne Room.

"**Show thineself, interloper! I am Gwyndolin, Lord of the Darkmoon, son of Gwyn. If thou seek' eth audience with me, they may come forth.**"

The god waited a moment before he heard the clinking of chainmail against armour as the person climbed the stairs to reach him. Gwyndolin prepared himself for another battle, just in case, making his snakes tense and lift their heads in preparation to strike.

But when the figure finally came into focus from the stairwell, the god had to raise an eyebrow in surprise. He had certainly not been expecting something like _this_ to wander into the castle, and to find audience with him, no less. Suddenly, an idea lit behind his turquoise eyes, making him smile broadly. For once, it appeared that bastard, luck, was on _his_ side for a change. He shook his thoughts away before regarding the figure before him, placing a hand under his pale chin.

"**How interesting…**"

* * *

**Add that to the… what was that arc called again?**

**_\- Arc Chiaroscuro._ **

**Great name, awesome meaning!**

**_\- you sure you want to call it that. Looks a bit too complicated for people that don't read a thesaurus like you and I._ **

**You and I are the SAME person. And no, that word isn't complicated. People use it in art and film, plus it's Italian, damn it! Why wouldn't I use it?**

**_\- you're right. And thank the reader that offered it up. Why this idiot didn't think of something like that is beyond me._ **

**_Shut up! Now, let's add it to the word bank ;p_**

* * *

**Word bank **

1\. **Pluviophile – (n.) **a lover of rain; someone who finds joy and peace of mind during rainy days.

2\. **Petrichor – _[pet-ri-kuhr]_ **the scent of rain on dry ground.

3\. **Alexithymia – (n.) **the inability to express your feelings.

4\. **Chiaroscuro – (n.) **the treatment of light and shade in drawing and painting. An effect of contrasted light and shadow.

* * *

**Firstly, I must say sorry for being afbesik-**

**-_speak in English (*smacks Mihairu7 with a frying pan)_ **

**Yeouch! Where the hell do you find a frying pan every time you want to hit me?!**

**-_I'm not going to answer that. Besides, I'm pretty sure you spelled that word wrong._ **

**_I did not! Anyways… sorry for being away for so long; increased workload, a boatload of new orders to be delivered and just general finals have kept me busy thus far. Damn pandemic's not even giving me time to shave-_**

**-_nobody cares._ **

**I will asphyxiate you!**

**-_…_ **

**_Ahem! I will post the next chapter as soon as I possibly can, I want to make up for a full month of inactivity. Please note that I will in no way EVER leave this fic unfinished, or any other for that matter, at times I'm just really busy. However, I started this fic with decent upload times, and I don't want to throw that away._**

**If you guys are wondering what Argon's mask looks like exactly; imagine Ciaran's one but just plain white. The eyeholes I mention are shaped like the following symbol: ' ~ '**

**I wanted to make him wear a cooler one like Haku's Hunter-nin one or Yoshimura's One-Eyed Owl mask but… that would be both a terrible idea and a crossover, and you all know how I feel about 98% of crossovers.**

**Regarding Gwyndolin's thoughts about The Ringed City, I will not be adding that journey to this fic. I aim to dedicate this story solely to DS 1 lore with one or two mentions of the other games. In the future, I might write a DS 3 fic that occurs after Kingdom Come's events, but I doubt Argon will be there. I'm thinking along the lines on making Gwyndolin the MC. There aren't enough fics of him currently, as it is. Perhaps I'll give Argon a cameo appearance or something… I'll decide that after I've written this fic and its spin-off. Thank you to the readers and reviewers that support where I'm going with all this, it really means a lot to me.**

**Please do R and R, as always, I'd love to hear your thoughts and opinions. Why you ask? Well, because those very thoughts and opinions could be brilliant ideas that I haven't thought of yet; ones that could make this fic all the more interesting to read.**

**Have a splendid day/afternoon/evening/youknowthedrill and don't become another bloody statistic on some governmental sheet of paper. Stay home, eat your vegetables, take your vitamins and be wise, scrutinize! (Ooh! That last one rhymed!)**

**-_I said nobody cares, now stop doing that._ **

**That's it, come here and be smothered to death!**

**(*grabs illogical self and coddles him like a child)**

**-_and you call Argon insane._ **


	19. Chapter 19

**…And that is why I refuse to accept that Shakespeare is the only 'pure' source of original literature schools should have the pleasure to use as a convenient set-book.**

**_-um, we're not alone anymore._ **

**Of course we aren't, there are thousands of things listening in on our conversation of the arts this very moment.**

**_-that's not what I-_ **

**Particles, air, dust, and oxygen float around you and I – or rather me and myself – as I refer to you the reason other great authors should have a shot in high school. Why even the Lord himself is peering down at us with utmost interest regarding this worthwhile debate. Just open your spiritual eyes, for Pete's sake, you'll catch a glimpse of His omnipotence too!**

**_-I mean that our dear readers are also listening – or rather reading – in on us, you fool._ **

**Oh… what a blunder that is.**

**_-now that we've established that, let's begin the next chapter._ **

**No! Not until I've explained to all of _them_ the reason great minds like Verne, Lovecraft and Peterson should be granted the opportunity to grace the young-un's as a set work! Even the Great Mr. King himself would be the prefect replacement. The morals of most of his stories and their intricacies could baffle the minds of yesteryear.**

**_-what is it you have against William's disintegrated remains?_ **

**Why, nothing. I loved Hamlet and was blown away by Macbeth and Romeo. I just think there are plenty of other people on the same level – if not higher – than Shakespeare, which also had texts that didn't require you a Rosetta stone to read when you were but a fledgling in the world of Elizabethan literature.**

**_-I think you're just babbling. The reason educational systems haven't changed his plays from the curriculum is due to it being the perfect challenge for up and coming intellectuals, and because people are too lazy to decipher Lovecraft's love of the mythical and maddening into something examination-worthy._ **

**Well that was quite an in-depth answer for a form of me only good for undermining my power.**

**_-firstly, you have no power as an amateur writer. You write stories and anonymous people judge them without any parental guidance. You are nothing but a slave to the reviews you so desperately crave._ **

**Woah, that was dark-ish. Nice!**

**_-thank you, I do my best when I'm not bored._ **

**And your best shows. You're actually a tad right there, though. Either way, being judged without training wheels is the best way to make it big one day. There is no better stage to display your written work than on sites such as this, ne?**

**_-indeed. May we begin the chapter now?_ **

**Gladly, on with ze story!**

* * *

Nine. That was the number of times he had been stabbed, crushed, chomped into pulp and fried to a burnt crisp after passing through yet another infuriatingly large fog-door. Initially, he was of the mind that killing demon after demon on yet another floor that led to a smouldering Abyss was his only objective. And then… he had been chased by Taurus Demons on a stairwell, ambushed by overgrown worms the size of duchy's when pouncing on an unopened chest; and let nobody mention the cousin of that atrocious Asylum Demon _holding a catalyst_.

Argon had told him Chaos Fire didn't hurt that much after enduring it for as long as a few moons. Now he just thought the undead was a perverted masochist. Who else would find facing _that_ monstrosity 'not so bad'? What was it Quelana had called it, the Demon Firesage? What was even remotely sage-like about that?!

But that wasn't the tip of the spire, no sir. What had cost him his souls, handsome beard and his patience was that damn bug on the wall! Bloody Izalith.

He had passed it by with apprehension in his chest, and worry pilling on like stones in his gut. Had he listened to that initial sense of dread, however? No sir. Did his mind calm down from his demon-slaying rampage to think about the consequences should that petrified beast awake? Again, no sir. And had he, for all his caution after nearly being _eaten _in a _cesspool, _stopped to formulate a plan in the _slight_ chance that things could and would go horribly wrong? For flippen Gwyn's sake, he had not!

It was just his luck – or bloody damned luck in general – that his next adventure around the fat demon with the staff, would take him down a pathway of oversized tree roots and long-hollow corpses of undead, and into a vast hall fit for royalty.

Now, it had occurred to him that perhaps the route currently being blocked by said oversized roots was his way towards the Izalith City, yet the adventurous and – dare he say it – _Argon_-like part of him had sneakily persuaded him to traverse through the _one_ door he would rather avoid… the fog door.

Granted, there was a cosy bonfire before it, and he didn't mind the mix of hot and cool air down there. However, his quest was the one thing to forced his tired limbs into literal suicide – aside from his newfound adoration for a certain Izalith daughter. After all, there was still a world to save, and he would be damned if he lost the chance to get his name etched onto the annals of heroes along with Argon himself, the lucky bastard.

Then again, when he thought of it carefully, his masked friend probably wouldn't want his name or face to be remembered on any record if he could help it. That was just how the undead was, as gay as he appeared to be most of the time. Perhaps it was possible that Argon didn't even _want_ to become Lordran's saviour, and in turn the saviour of the world. If so, then that meant the mostly satirical man was only completing this quest either out of some sense of guilt or request other than Lady Gwynevere's.

The proud pyromancer of the Great Swamp sighed out as he repaired his axe at the bonfire. When he thought about it carefully, he really didn't know much about Argon to begin with besides his personality. The man had never spoken a word of his past or his hobbies. Laurentius knew it was possible that the joker had forgotten his past after going hollow – it was a common occurrence – but he just couldn't imagine someone like him having amnesia, I just wasn't believable.

The pyromancer shook his head to refocus his thoughts and turned back towards the fog door before him. He was shoddy when it came to battle tactics, but he had tried a good few to best the oddly shaped bug-beast beyond the door. Unfortunately, just when he was able to sever one cringe-worthy limb from the thousands writhing on the demon, he would either experience being eaten alive or being squashed alive. Once, he had attempted to just shatter the ugly thing's face in with a reinforced pike, yet it had only pissed the thing off more. Besides that, he was at a gross disadvantage since he couldn't walk on lava. A good deal of help his pyromancies did him now. Argon that idiot… didn't he know that sending a pyromancer to fight in a fire-resistant kingdom was the worst move one could make? Then again, wasn't _he_ also the idiot for agreeing to it, himself? How could he have refused, however, when Quelana had looked at him with those hopeful, large, onyx orbs that nearly sucked him into obli- okay, he needed to focus now.

Laurentius stood up and rolled his shoulders. He could worry about serenading the Izalith beauty when he returned with her mother's soul- ah bloody hell, he was doing it again. Out of a whole kingdom, why did he have to befriend the _one_ undead that was both narcissistic, satirical _and_ mildly cynical at the same time?

The pyromancer took another deep breath before thinking about the task in front of him. He could try using his spells to the fullest, it was the only method he could think of when facing a foe so stubborn to his attacks. He had to have enough force in his swings, so Power Within was a good idea for creating powerful blows. He also needed to be fast on his feet, and on lava, so Flash Sweat would do better than his other buff.

Lastly, he needed to find a weak spot on the damn thing. When he had attacked the head, there was little to no reaction. When he had flung an orb of flame at its torso – if he could call that armoured board a midsection – he had been smashed into a wall. So that left the legs. Those wriggling appendages were horrendous, but they seemed most vulnerable to his hacking and slashing. With a nod, Laurentius prepared himself. The legs would be his primary objective then. The secondary would be dashing over a bed of liquid flames without melting his bones off so that he could reach the secret entrance into Izalith. Quelaan had been a darling when she had allowed him to join the Chaos Servant Covenant. It had been even more of a surprise for him when she had given him her original spell and directions towards the side entrance of the City. It was better than a frontal assault and it would get him that much closer to her mother, so he was grateful. Now, if only he had the strength to kill that ugly bug with the face.

Laurentius took a deep breath and closed his eyes, calming his mind and heart for the battle ahead. As he opened his eyes and began to walk forward to confront the bane of his journey, he couldn't help but notice the soft glint of something in his peripheral vision.

At first, he had thought it was nothing more than embers, lingering after death like bright spectres reminding him of the life he needed to live. But after the glow continued on its path to pique his curiosity, he just couldn't help but turn his head mid-stride to entertain that which delayed him from certain death.

He frowned, however, when he saw what seemed to be a straight, thick line of flame hovering in the corner of the door he was about to cross. He peered closer at the object. It wasn't exactly flame, he corrected himself, but runes of some kind. Bright yellow – almost golden runes.

With a huff, the pyromancer diverted his course and approached the glowing language on the floor. He had heard Argon and the unsociable lad in Firelink talk about these as summon-signs, but he had never had the chance to see one for himself. As he got closer to the indecipherable text on the floor, Laurentius noticed that the glow almost seemed to intensify upon proximity. But that was just his imagination, right?

Nevertheless, he neared the sign until he was but a foot away from it and was startled to see the glowing form of someone else appear before his eyes. He prepared himself to strike in case the thing was hostile, but when it merely stared passed him, he was convinced there was nothing sinister about this person dressed in a soldiers attire; even though the man – or phantom as it was called – seem rather peculiar to him. His helm was decorated with a tall feather and the crest he wore was so perplexing, he could only compare it to Argon's own enigmatic persona.

There was a sun on his chest, that much was clear. But why did it have a face… and why was it smiling? However odd the image seemed, Laurentius figured he might as well just entertain his curiosity while he could, before reaching down and touching the sign gently.

As he rose to his feet again the phantom disappeared from view as the sign brightened. The pyromancer gave it some space and watched in fascination as a person – or phantom, whatever it was bloody called – rose from the ground itself, hands raised as if stretching to greet the sky. Laurentius bowed his head in reply, not wanting to be rude, before the phantom disengaged from the strange gesture and stared at him.

"Why, hello there."

Laurentius nearly jumped in shock from the mellow voice it spoke with. Though that helm muffled it a bit.

"Wait… you can talk?"

"Yes, indeed. I wouldn't be a very good aide to you in battle if I couldn't, now could I?" the phantom chuckled to himself softly before bowing in an extravagant manner.

"Good day, or is it night? I'm not quite sure given this particular setting. Ah, well… I am Solaire of Astora, pleasure to meet you…"

"Laurentius…. Uh, of the Great Swamp, that is."

"Ah, like the great Salaman?" the phantom asked in excitement, clutching at his helm like a maiden in love. The sight wasn't unpleasant just… enthusiastically jolly?

Just then, a revelation seemed to strike the pyromancer with such force that he had to take a few steps back in shock. "Wait a minute mate, did you just mention something about helping me in battle against that thing on the other side of the fog?"

The phantom – he was Solaire now – looked down as if in though before nodding merrily at him. "Of course, that _is_ why my sign was placed here; to engage in jolly co-operation with a fellow undead!" Laurentius almost felt like his jaw was about to crash to the floor. He had spent Gwyn knows how long slaughtering hordes of demons only to be covered in black blood when he _could_ have just summoned Solaire, or another phantom, to aide him in getting to the City?

"Dreadful piece of work, that centipede of a Demon is. I must say I didn't find my odd's too great, so I just ran straight passed the thing when I came here."

The swamp-dweller looked at the man with wide eyes, earning him what seemed like a confused tilt of the head.

"Whatever is the matter? You look as though you've seen Lord Gwyn himself." He chuckled again at his own joke, even going as far as to raise a hand to his covered mouth.

"You… ran past it?"

"Straight past it, I'm afraid. I was in no mood to get my arms melted." That statement just made the now half-bearded man facepalm himself as he regarded the strange, golden phantom in front of him.

"So, you ran across boiling lava to escape that thing because you didn't want to melt your armour?"

Solaire nodded firmly before resting a glowing hand on his shoulder. "Indeed, I did. My, you are quite a slow one, try to keep up, Laurentius."

The pyromancer could only stutter out a response whilst Solaire walked towards the fog door and drew a straight sword from his hip, along with a rounded shield decorated with the same smiling sun.

Laurentius, for his part, couldn't get over this guy. He knew there were some oddballs out there – he pointed his finger directly at a certain masked undead – but _this_ guy was just weird from the get-go. He didn't dislike the guy – Solaire, it was good manners to use his given name – he just found him perplexing and unusually confident for some odd reason. And whilst he was on the subject of perplexing…

"Wait, if you've already passed this area, then you must be inside the City of Izalith already."

Solaire gave yet another happy nod. "I am, but unfortunately, my path is blocked by more lava and dragon legs. However, I did find what looks like an alternative pathway towards my destination. Perhaps I'll find my sun by taking it."

"Your kin are also in Izalith?" Laurentius asked, utterly confused.

"Hm? Oh! Heavens no, I have no children. I became undead when I had reached my twenty-third summer." This time he laughed as if it was the funniest thing in the world. The sound was actually calming to the stressed pyromancer.

"I see, but what were you- never mind. Just tell me how you're here with me when you must have reached the outer gates of the City days ago?"

"This must be your first time summoning someone," Solaire mused before turning around, "time in Lordran is convoluted. As such, I've found that encountering things both new and old are both frequent and commonplace nowadays, including the reason for our meeting today- night, or is it evening?" he scratched the edge of his helm in thought as Laurentius tried to make sense of it all. Things were just more confusing after the merry fellow had explained everything to him. Furthermore, he was beginning to think the phantom was just mad. Dragon legs? Finding his son, or did he mean an actual sun? And what was that first bit about jotted- no, _jolly_ co-operation?

"Even if that's true, it doesn't explain one thing." The pyromancer replied. As he drew his axe and shield and stood beside Solaire.

"And that is?" the phantom asked politely.

"How did you run past this thing if the floor was also covered in lava?"

"No clue, now let's kill us a Demon."

Laurentius groaned as he and his new companion entered through the fog. And here he was thinking that there was no one crazier than Argon. Well, at least he had someone to accompany him on his journey to kill the Deity of Life and claim her soul. How fun that would be to explain once all this was over.

* * *

"He isn't _ready _yet."

Those words were beginning to tick Kirk off immensely. Usually he wouldn't care what his second in command blabbered on about due to the fact that he didn't care what _anyone _blabbered on about. He was too busy scowling in disgust at the Darkwraith's that thought they were doing something good for the world at large.

Granted, he was their Commander, and should be disgusted at himself for making that smiling snake his master, but that was old news; and he wasn't bound by rage and depravity like the rest were. That being said, after Quelaan had been healed, he had only possessed one last objective as the Knight of Thorns.

The eradication of Argon.

The singular thorn in his side – no pun intended. The reason his perfect streak of claimed souls had been tainted and the cause of his spontaneous bouts of frustration for no apparent reason. He held no sense of revenge for the undead, of course; but the sight of that cocky, masked undead just pissed him off. It pissed him off more than the continuous pacing and chanting of his grouchy-voiced lieutenant.

But perhaps the only reason Argon angered the Darkwraith so much was due to Lithecore being the spitting image of him, if not the same person. He wasn't a fool; he knew something was off when the wannabe in Black Knight armour found this perverse fascination over the undead Kirk wanted eternally dead. It was a dead giveaway when he had seen Argon's face for the first time.

That pale face, almost sickly white, those dark circles where amber irises dwelled, and that annoying voice. It didn't matter if it was Argon speaking or Lithecore; he could link them as one entity in a heartbeat. What was even more infuriating was the fact that both men were better than him in combat.

Now, he was by no means a petty man, he just prided himself in his skills. After all, one did not become the nightmare of all undead for no reason. Yet whenever he had faced off against that chattery undead he could almost envision how far below he was in true swordsmanship. And it wasn't just that, his own creativity seemed to also be lacking in some way or another. Perhaps all those years spent at the top of the food-chain had made him sloppy.

Nevertheless, what mattered at the moment was the idiot in front of him. Usually he considered Lithecore a man, undead – or whatever he was – someone worthy of his respect, something that was most difficult to come by. Now, he just thought the wraith was a crazed animal chasing his tail due to being rabid. And he wasn't exaggerating, the Darkwraith honestly looked like he was chasing his own behind with his eyes and mouth.

"Could you stop doing that and explain yourself?"

Lithecore paused momentarily and glanced up at Kirk with wide, unseeing eyes before his muttering began anew and his pacing increased in speed. The Darkwraith Commander's eye twitched beneath his helm. Was Lithecore _trying_ to piss him off? Because if he wanted a fight, he would certainly receive one!

Kirk sighed out and slumped his shoulders. It was no use trying to get through to his lieutenant once that incessant chanting had begun, he would just have to continue the conversation with himself.

"Well now that we know where Argon is, and who his company is; we can plan a proper strategy." Kirk glanced at Lithecore, but the man was still pacing a trench into the soaked floor of New Londo. At least he had managed to glean the particulars from his wayward subordinate if nothing else.

"Master desires the souls of the Archbishop and the cross breed if we can't obtain the targets. Since we know where that sow will be going, the wraith's will be prepared to invade the Archive's at a moment's notice. Now that Gwyn's will has been lifted, we have the availability of travel to the other three locations of the Lord Souls."

The Knight of Thorns placed his arms behind his back as he thought of a strategy. All the while, Lithecore remained oblivious.

"You will take charge in leading the other wraiths to the trio in a series of waves. The Archives possess a near infinite number of floors before it reaches the paledrake. In that time, we can station companies of our pawns on each floor. They can deal with the pesky mutations Seath has in his abode while we wait on the top floor for their tired, weakened selves."

"What of the _Channeller's _guarding each floor? They will make securing ambushes a _nuisance_."

Kirk turned his gaze to his pale lieutenant. So, he was listening to him whilst muttering that useless drawl of jargon? Figures.

"If they create a problem for us, we will cut them down. Magic or not, they are but mere scholars holding tridents as their tomes."

"An _interesting_ plan… but it falls short."

The Commander raised a curious eyebrow. "What would you propose as a main tactic, then?"

Lithecore tapped an armoured finger to his cheek before he began to walk in a circle around Kirk. "We have access to _all_ locations of the Lord Souls, now. New Londo is our base, so the current garrison of ghost and wraith needn't _change_. However, instead of a _frontal_ assault, perhaps a pincer attack is more intriguing…"

"Explain."

"_After_ killing off the nude lizard – which they will accomplish without a _doubt_ – they will return to Anor Londo's bonfire by the Lordvessel's power. Why not plant a false task force in their midst _whilst_ that god is at his weakest? It will gain us the purchase we need to _bait _them into fleeing towards the Gravelord."

"The Catacombs? What of Izalith?"

"Didn't you learn _anything_ after your foxtrot in the Spider-woman's resting place? They've already sent an _operative_ into its boiling midst."

Kirk blinked at Lithecore's words. It hadn't even occurred to him after he had been sent back into his physical body a bleeding mess. He hadn't even thought it would be remotely possible for anyone save for the Chosen Undead to brave the lairs of the Great Lords. As much as he hated Argon with a passion, he had to admit that that had been quite a clever move on his part.

"Anyway, we'll plant our _real_ strike team on the darkest part of that skeletal cemetery whilst the bluff pays _off_. We'll leave the trio to _best_ the supposed dungeon whilst we lie in wait like the _snake_ that leads us."

"And catch them by surprise while in the dark," the Darkwraith Commander added, "which will effectively break their focus. The last thing they'll be suspecting is an army of Darkwraith's waiting for them."

"_Exactly._" Lithecore grinned as he cupped his chin. "If all goes _well_, it will _finally_ awaken him; completing the reason for this hunt."

"If he's already insufferable, he'll be even worse insane like you." Kirk grunted, the last thing he wanted was another Lithecore in his face; especially since Kaathe had wanted him alive – not that he was really going to follow that order.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about _that_."

"And why the hell not?"

"Because you have _me_. Let me _worry_ about _controlling_ my contorted _twin_."

The Knight of Thorns peered at his lieutenant with a sceptical expression before shrugging in defeat. It wasn't like he had a better idea to best such a dramatic strategy.

"When can this plan be enacted then?"

"Why, _immediately_, my Commander."

Kirk sniffed and turned back towards the empty streets of waterlogged New Londo.

"Assemble the wraiths."

* * *

He should have known that his expectations would be cut short. After all, if even the great Artorias couldn't live up to his moniker as the most skilled knight in possibly the world, then of course his own expectations would prove futile in the face of the current reality. He didn't shun the wolf knight for his failure – nobody did or would – but was depressed at the fact that all he come to know when he was alive was almost as fantastical as a fairy tale.

Although, what depressed him more than his shot down perception was the state of the place he had once called home. Empty halls, echoing corridors and whistling winds that spoke more of departing salutation than open welcome. They had all said it would never come to this day so long as the sun still stood in the sky.

They had all lied.

The Black Knight looked down at another member of his slain Silver brethren before sheathing his greatsword. It felt odd killing his own kind, if they could be called after his ascension to a dark spectre in charcoal armour. He couldn't recall feeling remorse after he had impaled the smaller servant of Gwyn – ex-servant in his case – but a fleeting fascination that from the ones he had impaled and heard wail, they hadn't broken apart into white soulmass. Perhaps it was because they were still very much alive, or maybe his form had been so corrupted by the First Flame that slaughtering his brethren prevented their souls from releasing from their bodily shells? He didn't know, what he did know was that they all saw him as an intruder; how odd.

He hadn't known what he would do once he reached the Shinning City; his only motivation had just been to arrive here. However, after he had been forced to kill the sector's sentinels and peer over a citadel that lacked its garrison, his mind had begun to seek answers.

He knew everyone, save for the army of Knights, had left long ago – including that pathetic excuse for a goddess – however he had been determined to find something, anything to explain what exactly was going on here. The Church – now named the Painting Hall – had still possessed its guardians but he had found them to be congregating in the structure instead of guarding it. He hadn't stopped by for an explanation, he wouldn't be able to enquire without a mouth in the first place, so he had ventured into the castle; utilising the old passageway known only to selective knights who possessed Gwyn's trust. He had not been expecting the place to look as it did currently.

Granted, there were less knights in the castle as there were around the ramparts, however, they had all been lacklustre in their time to allow winged demons and a Titanite beast into various facets of the structure. If he or any of the other knights of old had been present, they would have seen to these pests immediately.

But he hadn't been there, thus the reason for this intrusion. Besides, what need was it to scoff at their incompetence as soldiers? It wasn't like he was one of them anymore – the loyal, blindfolded mutts.

As such, he had thought that the answers he required would come from those that still remained in Anor Londo. Whilst he had been but a mindless husk in the Parish, he had caught fragments of conversation from fallen undead that Knight Ornstein was still present in the castle, running the show as it were. How they had come across the information was meaningless, what mattered was the fact that they knew it; he just hoped the Commander of the Silver Knights was still here.

Of course, the stained Knight possessed a contingency plan if the former were to fail. Despite Lordran withering away day by day, the crowned city abandoned to age to dust and the King of Lighting nothing more than ash, there would still be _one_ person that remained to pick up the pieces again – for that was his responsibility as the last member of a lost bloodline. Everyone living in Lordran before its fall had know that if Gwyn died, the grand orb of flame in the sky would too. Now that just that had come to pass, was it not strange that the burning sun still blazed in the blue sea above the clouds? There could be only one person capable of such a feat.

Gwyndolin.

As much as the Knight refused to stay loyal to the past King, his youngest son was a different matter entirely. The Lord of the Darkmoon was wiser than his siblings and father put together, his potential was greater than the exiled God of War; and he would be the only one with a mind capable of keeping an open mind. He would also know what to do with a lone Black Knight that had lost more than his reason for living. That was why he had crushed every Silver counterpart that had tried to halt his way towards the Throne Room, leaving a trail of glinting bodies in his wake.

However, when he had finally come upon the youngest Lord, the Knight had had to delay his objective. After he had encountered a bloodied visage of the Great Hall, and a phantasmic body of man in Black Knight armour attached to a grand pillar, he had known that Ornstein was no longer stationed in the castle, let alone Lordran itself any longer. It was foolish to think that the nebulous form of the Darkwraith he had fought in the Parish was capable of slaying the head Knight of Lordran. It could only have been the undead battling head-to-head with the god of the moon.

The battle had been intense and would have made him raise an eyebrow if he had a face under his helm. Although the undead that seemed mildly familiar had put up a decent fight, he couldn't hold a candle to Gwyndolin – the being _was_ a god after all. Even so, the undead with the strange black side had been relentless in the face of his inevitability. That was something the Black Knight could respect, if nothing else.

But what had garnered him the grandest inquisitiveness was when two figures had chosen to enter the Throne Room after said battle had completed. The sight of them had forced his mind into overdrive, suddenly the possibilities and eventualities he had theorised in his lack of a skull seemed positive for the future of this dying world. What's more, it seemed that the undead fighting Gwyndolin just happened to be the Chosen Undead of legend, no wonder he seemed familiar. The best part was that this undead seemed to know how his miserable quest would end. How unexpected, the tide had just changed – and for the better it seemed.

The Knight waited until the party had left the Darkmoon Lord, exiting through the entrance of the Great Hall. It was only then that he observed the last born of Gwyn. It wasn't a pretty sight either, the god was a tired, bleeding mess. Those snakes that served as his heels were half maimed or severed, his clothing was decorated with new gashes and tears, and his royal blood stained the floor like a small pond of rich red wine.

He thought about how easy it would have been to walk into that room and cleave the gods head from his shoulders, to exact his revenge on Gwyn by slaying his son.

But his hand had not reached for his blade.

He was a Black Knight. He had been torched by the First Flame and robbed of his life. His King had sought to preserve a line only capable of fence-sitting hypocrites and undermine the humans like ants under his heel; using his very knights as fodder to fuel his fleeting ideals. He had lost his mind, his home, his brethren and his existence after Gwyn had bolstered that fire. Yet he had also gained his independence. With his body turned to ash and his 'Lord' a sliver of memory, he had been unshackled from the chains of service, of forced loyalty. His mind had become his own, not commanded to blindly follow beings that asserted their superiority. Though he had been born from Gwyn's will, he had not needed to adhere to its demands after death. And since he was able to think for himself, he was also able to decide what path he chose to take, what conclusions he chose to draw.

He had come to this cursed castle for answers and direction where his own mind could not conjure up an answer. Therefore, killing Gwyn's son as revenge was not his duty; he had already claimed his revenge when he had claimed his individuality. Besides, if he had been given the choice – and he certainly _had_ as of this very moment – he would have chosen to be loyal to the Lord of the Darkmoon. At least he would have used foresight when deciding what to do during the waning of the Flame.

As the Knight prepared himself to confront said Lord, he noticed Gwyndolin stand to his full height. Though he was weak and in no position to fight he was stubborn to his injuries. It was something he could admire about the god. Before he could finish ascending the stairs leading to the Throne Room, the gods crowned face turned his way, as if seeing through the architecture itself.

"**Who goes there?**" He bellowed, stopping the Knight in his tracks. He should have known he would be spotted; this _was_ Gwyndolin he was talking about.

"**Show thineself, interloper! I am Gwyndolin, Lord of the Darkmoon, son of Gwyn. If thou seek' eth audience with me, they may come forth.**"

With determination in his armour, the Black Knight continued his climb up the blood-stained incline. It was time his silent questions were answered, and if possible, his new reason for living realized. He hoped that through Gwyndolin, these things could be placed into perspective for him.

And so, as he stood before Gwyndolin, who placed a hand under his chin in what seemed like curiosity, he prepared himself for what would definitely be the catalyst for his next move.

For his sake, he hoped that move would help him find his purpose for regaining that which he had lost.

* * *

**This chapter was about 2k less than the normal length but please excuse me, it's just so bloody cold here that my brain decided to freeze. Make no mistake, I love the cold (being born in Autumn) but for some reason it just isn't helping my hands and teeth from shaking less.**

**Just a few things to note today. I made Laurentius say 'Demon Firesage' on purpose in case you all thought I was unaware of the things actual name.**

**I was really, _really_, REALLY apprehensive with regard to introducing Solaire into this fic. Since he's literally the most loved character in SoulsBorne, I didn't want to mess up his character and dialogue. I did my best to bring out his jolly-ness (hope I pleased you all) and make his unpredictability funny. That being said, he's still going to die after he puts the sunlight maggot on his head a few chapters from now.**

**-_yeah right, you are. You literally planned out five chapters in advance interlinking Argon's trio and Laurentius' duo as they journey to their respective Lord Souls, AND you also wrote out a draft for Argon and Solaire's encounter._ **

**You damned spoiler! Why did you have to go and tell them that?**

**-_if I didn't this fic would have been called the worst DS story in history because you like to open yourself up for getting needlessly flamed._ **

**I was just kidding around though.**

**-_there's a difference between joking around and stupidly thinking a damaging sentence is a joke._ **

**Fair point. I am sorry for the scare dear readers.**

**-_I doubt they'll even care. Nobody reads your dumb authors notes._ **

**Ha! That's what you think. Nice try but I'm too positive to be put down by your monotonous methods. That reminds me, why are you so pessimistic when I'm optimistic?**

**_-…_ **

**What?**

**-_you're the one writing these annoying dialogues, you should know, you idiot._ **

**Ohh, right. Good point. Anyhow, my illogical self is correct, my plan is to interlink Argon and Laurentius' journey to Seath and Queen Izalith, respectively. I had planned on making Solaire appear after our pyromancer had died a couple of times against the Bed of Chaos, but this seemed like a better idea.**

**In other news, things are heating up at the Darkwraith HQ. What could they be planning?**

**-_stop being a tease (*slaps Mihairu7)_ **

**Ow! Okay, I hope the Gwyndolin Cliffhanger was enjoyable. As much as I agree that I should have held it back a few chapters, it was necessary for the next arc to continue. I think I'll name this one the J-**

**-_don't ruin it for the readers, dammit (*covers Mihairu7's mouth)_ **

**_Mmm-mhhm-mmmmh!_**

**_-ignore him. Please read and review, flames are permitted since he's an idiot and please stay safe at home everyone._ **


	20. Chapter 20

**Oh, I've been waiting for this arc for quite a long time.**

**-_and why is that?_ **

**_We finally get to see the clash between Seath and Havel, the discord of a strange draconic family and let's not forget our MC's fluctuating plectrum into pseudo-insanity._**

**-_those are quite interesting plots to investigate. Personally, I favour the reunion between Argon and Logan._ **

**Ah, yes, you were always a stickler for the bond those two shared. Which is rather odd, now that I think about it… I liked Logan, I just didn't fancy a partnership between the two. But you do… why is that when you are me?**

**_-the particulars aside, let's begin the story._ **

**Chrysanthemum!**

**_-uh… okay? What was that all about?_ **

**I don't know, it just popped into my head.**

**_-I somehow understand you there._ **

**Splendid! Now, on witg- agh!**

**_-what's the matter now?_ **

**I bith my thung. Oopths!**

* * *

If the roles had been reversed this time around, Priscilla was sure Argon would call unwanted snooping into a person's bubble 'insightfully intuitive probing', or some other nonsense that possessed a strange form of logic to the extravagant label.

Unfortunately, this time around it was _he_ that was on the receiving end of the analysing tool called a woman's intuition. Of course, it wasn't very difficult to see that he was already troubled by many things, including the truth that had been nearly lost to the wind itself.

As much as she would have liked to assault her uncle with a volume of connotative insults that would make even his snakes slither back in fear at her formal vulgarity, she knew he meant well. He had been left desperate after living alone for so many decades whilst watching his home slowly erode away as the flame of the Kiln lost its glow. How could she not sympathise with him when she had been in the exact same boat?

However, the only thing that struck her as odd was Argon's response to such a bounty of information so valuable, it would cost more than a few kingdoms' and then some. That being said, it wasn't really unlike the undead to act opposite from the norm, but this was just strange, even in his case.

He had shown a vast dislike to being lied to, going as far as to avoid entering the Shining City at all costs. That alone explained his repulsion after coming to understand part of the truth. Thereafter he had battled her uncle to the death twice as a show of his bottled-up anger and rage – the memory of all that blood of his decorating the walls and floor still made her shiver uncomfortably. And she didn't want to even mention how his entire right side was now covered in those abyssal vines.

Yet, when Gwyndolin had explained everything, Argon had done nothing to express his feelings. Everyone who had had the pleasure – or displeasure – of travelling with the man knew that he was vocal in everything, private or public issues mattered not to him. So why hadn't he, the one who had been lied to and used the most, spoken out or even reprimanded her uncle for his misdeeds?

It would be foolish to imagine that the masked undead didn't care about the curse and perils caused by the Undead Quest, but at the same time it was difficult to pin point whether he _did_ hold a proper opinion to what was going on around him. After they had departed from Firelink, he had begun to drift farther and farther away from her, and she didn't like it.

Normally the invisible distance he would place between himself and her, or even Sir Havel would be easily broken by mere conversation. However, what she felt now whilst walking behind a humming Argon was akin to a poisonous moat instead of some flimsy boundary.

The change wasn't simple to detect, but herself and the ex-Archbishop had been around the Chosen Undead long enough to notice when something was significantly different. A prime example would be how he had asked Sir Havel and herself to leave whilst he conversed with Gwyndolin one last time.

Perhaps 'asked' would be a kinder word because it had felt more like a command. Argon wasn't a man of violence or arrogance outside of battle. In fact, if he hadn't been the Chosen Undead to begin with or been trained in combat; Priscilla reasoned that Argon would probably have been one of the best scholars the world had ever seen. That was why his cold response to Sir Havel's questions shocked her. The face he had worn and the rage he had exuded was as if he was a different person. Granted, she had seen his bloodlust and animalistic tendencies when he had been near-hollow, but this was vastly diverse. It was almost as if the Argon she knew had been replaced by this wrathful duplicate.

And it wasn't just her that thought that, Sir Havel had also been throwing glares at Argon's back. He too must have known something was amiss. Besides being alive for more than humanly possible, the Bishop was a man of great wisdom. That short scuffle of conversation had been more than enough information to awaken his curiosity and bolster his anger at the fact that the undead he followed was behaving like a cowardly lion.

Priscilla sighed out as she and her companions walked in silence towards the marble lift. She absently cast a glace toward the Painting Hall. That had been the first place she had stepped in when Argon had freed her from Ariamis' world. Back then he had been quirky, sharp and mildly guarded with his emotions. She assumed that it was due to being alone for so long that his trust was difficult to earn. That was why he had remained tight-lipped about his past, who he was and what he really felt.

She turned her emerald eyes to his form as the cool shade of the structure before them covered their heads. Now he seemed silent, closed-off and almost cynical in his answers. After all that had occurred, she wondered how the cheerful and lively Argon she knew had changed so quickly within the blink of an eye.

She knew it had something to do with the events that occurred after they had left him in the Great Hall. He had only looked, felt and sounded monotone after they had returned to his side. It was why she chastised herself for not listening to her gut feeling in that moment. Why she hated herself when she had agreed to Sir Havel's opinion that he needed time to himself. She of all people should have known that a man like him who had suffered so much didn't require time alone, he need company!

With all he had faced, weathered and experienced alone in a land brimming with danger at every corner, what she should have done was stand by his side, regardless of what he himself said to placate her fears. Sir Havel wasn't to blame because he wouldn't have known Argon like she did, he didn't understand how the undead was wired to force himself to do everything alone; how due to his loss he contained an uncurable alexithymia**1**.

Thus, the blame lied with her. Even though she knew it wasn't true, she still felt an ache in her heart. And why wouldn't she? She hadn't been able to help her friend and saviour in the moment he truly needed it. After all he had done for her, she had still let him down.

Why couldn't she have seen the signs sooner? The agony he endured before departure to Anor Londo, the meek persona he had tried to hide when inside the castle. They had both stared her in the face like twin beams of light in the darkness. He would never have asked for her help, of course; he was too modest to ask for anything at all because he had grown up facing everything alone. How could he know to request for help if he didn't even know what the word 'help' meant?

Even so, whether she had failed him or not, she would not give up. Argon was her friend; the closest one she had ever had next to Jeremiah. Besides being her companion, he was also someone she held deeper feelings for. She wouldn't stop in her pursuit to help him even if he refused it, and she would never give up in her mission to understand him because he was too precious a person to allow this cruel world to swallow greedily.

As the trio made their way up the slow lift, Havel echoed the same sentiments as his fluffy-tailed companion. Argon may be a loon, but he had still freed him from a second eternity of imprisonment. Without the undeads annoying voice constantly grating on his nerves, the Bishop would have never been able to leave that Lloyd-forsaken tower or garner the strength and mental stability to exact his revenge again.

Argon may be a completely different man than what he was not long ago, but he was still the man that had given him a second chance, and without a reciprocated cost in return. Other than his careless good deeds, Havel had to admit that the company was actually better than that of the gods themselves. With those positives listed, how could he, an honourable man of the Rock possibly _not_ help a wayward fool and friend in need, even if he himself was lost to this knowledge?

That being said, helping the boy and carrying out the method to his redemption would be a rocky road, their next stop was the Duke's Archives after all…

They reached the end of their stifling ride toward the upper level of Anor Londo. Havel sighed out in relief. The air had been so thick with unnecessary tension that he had been contemplating smashing the marble ring they had been standing on for some kind of distraction. However, thinking back on it now, that would have been a terrible idea. For one, his Dragontooth would have cracked that stone surface into a thousand pieces; and two, at that altitude they would have all fallen to their deaths.

The waning glow of the sun licked the back of Havel's helm, causing him to turn back and admire the view before him. Whether the sun itself was an illusion or the empty streets of a once proud city howled with cold wind, Havel had to respect the last born of Gwyn. He may have been an annoying runt with more feminine qualities than masculine ones, but he had done his father proud, even if the pathetic god wasn't around to appreciate it.

Making a ghostly kingdom look as if it were in its golden age was no small feat and recreating a previously dead sun was even more meritorious. Gwyndolin had done his best with what little resources Gwyn, the firstborn and Gwynevere had left over. He had made the Shining City a place that renewed the hopes of those outside of its alabaster walls, thus sparking a fragment of hope into the lives of many. For that, he deserved the Bishop's respect – even if he still hated all divinity related to that arrogant Lord of Sunlight.

Havel turned back to Priscilla and Argon. Whether the undead was ready or not, they would still need to discuss a strategy for infiltrating and facing the paledrake.

This may be the party's first attempt at wresting a Lord Soul from its holder but there was still no room for carelessness. They were to face the Duke of Anor Londo. Whether there were rumours of his demise or insanity didn't matter at this point. Seath was still an Everlasting Dragon, his power was magnanimous, and his intelligence surpassed even Havel's. In order to clear the obstacle that lay before them and in order for Havel to gain his revenge, a proper plan would be required. What they were stepping into wouldn't be a walk in Darkroot by any means. It would be a bloodshed from the moment they passed through those doors.

Before the ex-Archbishop could even call out to his companions, however, he was interrupted by a maiden dressed in brass armour. What was surprising wasn't the fact that she appeared to be the first other person besides the soldiers of Gwyn that resided in the kingdom, or the fact that the aura from her meant she was a Firekeeper; but the fact that she had engaged in a full-on duel with Argon of all people.

Havel turned his head towards Priscilla who gave him an equal look of confusion before they decided to rush in and assist their comrade but were abruptly stopped by the undeads voice.

"Don't interfere, this is a matter involving me alone."

* * *

At first it was nothing but a peculiar scent, something familiar, curious, suspicious; though not something that would have caused her to worry. Then there came the pain in her chest suddenly as she was watching the flames she protected. It had been sudden, simple, agonising, yet fleeting before it had disappeared entirely as if it had never happened in the first place.

After moments of her rash thinking, crude analysis, and worry, she had known that something was wrong but had done nothing to prove it as fact or fiction. Then the scent had returned.

She knew the person who possessed it was nowhere nearby, yet the power of that aroma had grown so thick that it had assaulted her senses at point blank range, causing her body to convulse in response.

For that which had been but an unclear odour had become a choking miasma that blotted out the horizon itself.

She had been a fool not to notice it at first sniff. Although it had been many, _many_ moons since such a revolting and profane sense had assaulted her form, she had allowed herself to become slow, idle to the signs of sin.

That was why, when _he_ had become visible, tangible before her, she had rushed forth to purge that pitiful excuse of life. She had not notified her brethren, nor allowed a break in the kingdom's wards so that otherworldly members of her order could take her place if she failed; for such was her anger at the sight of utter betrayal.

It was true that her duty was to maintain the fire she had been bound to. Yet, it was also true that she was to be a guardian to the Lord she served without question. Her actions where selfish, yes, but if one were in her boots, which route would they choose; to unwillingly guard the flame like some clingy woman, or to take action against those that dare to harm the _one_ being that showed mercy to someone so hated by the world that created her?

Despite what people said about the gods and their greed for superiority, she would have given everything to be on their side time and time again. The reason wasn't because she was a weaker race or because she was loyal to the gods. It was simply because between the two factions, Man was more monstrous than the deity's themselves. For when man had maimed her, broken her and scarred her until she was a living nightmare given warped flesh, Gwyndolin had had mercy. When her own kind had called her ugly and foul, her Lord had carried her in his arms and declared that she possessed unparalleled beauty. For what earthly eyes could not see, the Lord of the Darkmoon could; and he had nurtured that which he had considered wonderful inside her when all she saw and felt was self-disgust.

In her eyes, you could damn the name of Lord Gwyn, cast stones at the statues of Velka and curse the blessings of Fina, Gwynevere and many others all you liked, but nothing they did would compare to the malic of Humanity. They were a weaker race, yes, made to depict the gods themselves but they were filled with a lust for destruction that no amount of death could satisfy and no amount of blood could fill.

That was why she had truly believed in what fragment of a broken heart she still possessed that _he_ would be different from the rest. Untainted, unspoilt by the embrace of a race that was as cruel as it was discriminatory. But she had been wrong.

After his abrupt revival and crazed words, he had become like those that had broken her. His ominous birth right that declared him a vessel of humanity had sullied her Lord, and in turn putrefied his own self.

She knew that he had suffered far worse than anything she had, which was why she had cast her ballet of hope into his destiny to ascension. She had thought that, since he had not been reformed by the harshness of the world he was endeavouring to save, he would be the one to fix the fractured minds of the human race entirely. But perhaps such a hope had been too selfish of her. He was also human, like she once was, and was prone to make mistakes at some point. She just didn't think that would be possible for him, who had braved much and still possessed a strong spring in his steps after each hurdle. Perhaps that by witnessing his unusual luck and perseverance, she had made herself believe that he was not capable of failure? Whether or not that was the reason, she had _never_ anticipated that this would be the path he would have chosen.

His companions stood stark still in confusion as she rushed him, blades at the ready. They probably wondered why a mere Keeper would do such a thing; did they forget that she was Darkmoon Blade before she was a guard dog to the Flame?

Nevertheless, she did not relent in her attack. They were swift, quick and deadly; as a swordsman should be, woman or not. That being said, he had still dodged all of them without even raising his fist. How infuriating that it was the Chosen Undead of all people that would sin against the gods.

As she stepped back to gain her breath, he signalled for his advancing companions not to interfere, and he was correct in what he said. This _was_ a matter that only involved him. It would be both stupidity and unchivalrous to involve a goddess and an archbishop in such an affair, especially considering that both titles directly contradicted the sin that their companion carried.

Without waiting for him to draw his weaponry, she dashed forward again, stabbing with her estoc; once, twice, thrice, and backstepped before swiping at him with her dagger, blunt as it was. She landed a single cut on his oddly made coat fitted with knives. He was just as skilled as her brethren had reported him to be. And that was the problem.

Under normal circumstances, the virtuous thing to do was allow your foe to at least equip his shield before this spell began, but this was not the time for righteousness. He had sinned against the gods, as such, the likes of chivalry and kindness could never be afforded to betrayers of divinity. He was not a phantom either, which made him nothing more than a speck of dirt on one's boot that demanded immediate cleansing.

He had not summoned any arms from his infinite armoury yet, even though he could have used the moment she lunged forward again to his advantage to impale her with a polearm. Instead, he merely side-stepped before back-peddling; it was the most annoying thing in the world.

Was he not taking this seriously, or did he think this was amusing since she was a woman? No, he knew the gravity of his actions well; and his companion was the niece of her Lord, so he wouldn't think like that of an arrogant steward. So why was he still unarmed? Why did he not defend himself? Surely, he knew she would not stop until either of them was lying dead on the warm ground, right?

She didn't wait for an answer. As an alternative, she slashed with her estoc, twisted with her dagger splayed and lashed out with a fast kick to the side of his calf. In turn, he leaned away from her blade, twisted when her dagger came near, and caught her boot with a counter-kick. He did so all without losing a single ounce of energy.

He pushed her back after a moment of their stillness and she stumbled, anger filling her sight behind her visor as she crouched.

She had known that he was suffering with the effects of the Abyss, such compensation was only natural after he had declared besting an ancient evil not even Knight Artorias could win against. Although calling the effects of the abyss motive for his rash change in persona was a weak excuse. Surely, the reason had to be something else. A break in the soul, an ulterior motive, a secondary agenda, maybe a secretive mission to destroy Lordran instead of save it? It just _had_ to be one of those reasons. It would be the only way to explain this heart-breaking turn of events that caused her hope to shatter, and her morality to be questioned.

How had he become like this? What happened for him to take wrongful actions against the side of Light and call it just? Was it because he didn't _believe_ that the side of Gwyndolin and the relinking of the Flame was the right choice? If that was so then what else did he propose to do, allow the Age of Man to prosper? That was madness, even for the undeads case. He was much smarter than that to allow such a thing to happen.

Even though her duty was to deliver judgement to the sinful, she knew she could not win this sorry excuse for a battle. She may have been the strongest of the Darkmoon Blades and the right hand of her Lord, but against a form of untold power such as him, she was fighting a losing battle. The act of him fighting bare handed was enough proof to support such a statement.

The odds wouldn't have even been in her favour if her brethren were here to support her. And in the non-existent chance that she actually _did_ manage to gain the opportunity to strike the killing blow, his companions would break their given command and rush in to help. As if facing someone who had the potential to become the strongest being in the world wasn't difficult enough, she would also be facing the trusted comrade of Lord Gwyn during the Age of Ancients, _and_ the cross breed goddess of Gwynevere. In terms of strength, she would rank lower than the Royal Sentinels next to these three.

She was panting as she stepped back from her latest flurry of attacks and sweat was beginning to make her damaged skin chaff against her armour and obscure her vision, all while he stood stationary. She saw the heterochromatic glow of his eyes from behind his mask as evening began to creep in. She wondered if they looked at her breathless form with pity or contempt, although disagreeing with the latter – even if he had sinned, he was still not a man to display such lesser emotions.

The Archbishop and Princess remained where they were. Sir Havel was a stoic well… rock, and the Princess the complete opposite. Her heart was worn on her cheek as she stared wide-eyed at both of them, wondering why and what had caused such a development. Truthfully, she wondered the same as the goddess but didn't offer an answer. She was about to die anyways, what was the point of answering something Lord Gwyndolin himself probably couldn't explain?

Mustering up the last reserves of her strength, she decided to walk forward – there was no use rushing to your death, after all. As she did so, she memorised the shape of the area she stood in, the colours reflected by the setting sun. She pondered on how she would never get the chance to see it rain in Anor Londo and how she loved it when the glowing moon rose into the sky, reminding her of the god she served and adored with all her heart.

As she entered into Argon's personal space and swung her blade, she thought about how her brethren would miss her, and how when she did fall, her bonfire would be snuffed out just like her own short lifespan.

The undead before her continued to duck, dodge and side-step her attacks but she was relentless, flowing like a raging river with each strike. She would not let up, she would not back down for she was a Blade of the Darkmoon, an embodiment of the arbiter's that judge the sinful.

She watched intently as Argon's body moved just as smoothly. First, he avoided her dagger before knocking it out of her hand. Then he allowed her kick to strike his thigh, which he reciprocated with a boot of his own that took the wind out of her sails. As she dropped to her knees, she desperately jabbed with her estoc. Her eyes widened in shock when he opened his hand and received the attack.

The sound of metal touching flesh wasn't as loud as she would have thought, but the blood that sprayed against her was quite significant. Time seemed to slow down as she watched her blade impale his palm until the hilt. She would have stabbed his mask as well if her blade were any longer, but he had decided to grab the guard of the blade before that happened and bent her wrist. She cried out in pain as he forced her fist into an unnatural position. Even as his grip threatened to break her hand, she wondered how he hadn't even uttered a sound when she had stabbed him, or how his grip was still this vice-like.

He brought his face closer to hers and her eyes were blinded by an amber and violet glow. As she began to see her life flash before her eyes, it was only then that he began to speak.

* * *

Argon watched the Brass Keeper struggle in vain as he held her sword arm in his grip. He knew that it had to come at some point, it was just a shame that it had to happen. Thus was the price of peeling the scales from one's eyes, was it not?

Even so, he hated the fact that all he saw before him was a defeated knightess on her knees. He had felt it in her attacks but after seeing her aura with his right eye, he knew that resigned persona when he saw it. She had faced him in battle as was her job, but she had come at him with the acceptance that it was in vain. If there was one thing he hated at that very moment, it was her lack of conviction. For someone so devoted to Gwyndolin, she wasn't very good at deciding for herself the eventualities of her fate. Since that was the case, he had decided that perhaps she needed the motivation she was lacking.

"That's it, huh?" he asked as he came closer to her, his gaze fixed on the eyes hidden behind that brass helm. "I knew you were neutral but not acquiescent."

"What purpose would fighting back do? It's clear that you would be the victor."

Argon grunted before pulling her up by the sword that was still embedded in his hand. He would need to get himself another Estus flask when this was over.

"So, you loved Gwyndolin but not enough to continue living for him?"

She turned her helm to him and stared. It appeared he had hit the nerve he was looking for.

"Whatever hope I had has been crushed."

"Oh, don't start blaming everything on me," Argon pointed a thumb behind him, "these two already do that on a daily basis."

The two people in question replied with a look of embarrassment and a short grunt, respectfully.

"You were a fool to place all your aspirations in me in the first place. I may have been human but I'm certainly not your saviour."

The Brass Keeper shrugged her shoulders weakly in reply. It seemed his words weren't getting through to her at all. In fact, it seemed like she was only bothering to answer him for the sake of it.

_Well there goes the easy approach._

Argon sighed as he tugged her sword away from her. As if her submissive voice was bad enough, now even her movements were weak-willed and monotone. The undead muttered under his breath as he tossed the blade to the ground carelessly. At least the bite of her blade had more go than she did, it almost hurt when it had pierced his palm to the hilt.

He spared another look at the Keeper before him. Her neutrality was all but gone now. That previously clipped tone she used to use had vanished, and her usual logical answers were now slathered in pessimism. He would bet that if he removed her helm, she would resemble a zombie. It was a shame that his mere appearance had done this much to her, and he honestly despised himself for it. However, what she needed was to realize that believing in him to live up to prehistoric expectations was just foolishness, imprudence without thought. It was time she learned that.

"Gwyndolin wasted his time on you." The knightess turned her visor to him as he walked around her.

"I honestly thought he kept you around so he could have a bit of girl-time, but after he mentioned that you were his go-to subordinate… I'm just disappointed."

"Argon!" Priscilla gasped. She had been expecting a change in her companion but to think he would purposefully degrade someone for the fun of it was going too far. She took a step forward to give him a piece of her mind but stopped when Havel held out his arm in front of her. She turned her gaze to the Bishop's helmed face in confusion. Was he going to allow Argon to say such things when this woman who had help both of them was at her weakest?

She knew there was probably a very good reason she had attacked the masked undead – the fight with her uncle looked like a pretty good one to her – but he wasn't just defeating her in battle, he was making her feel inferior. After he had saved Queelan and become enraged that the Keeper in Firelink had perished, he should have known better than to put down someone who had already known what it was like to suffer. Yet for some reason, Havel found it relevant that things should run its course? Either both men were insensitive or there was something she was really missing out on.

"Don't 'Argon' me, you know it as well as I do that she's wasted space. What was fem-boy thinking when he made her his second-in-command? Was he in need of _some_ feminine atmosphere that he just got _any_ old broad to be his Blade? How pathetic."

"Take that back."

"Hmm, what was that?" Argon asked looking back at a trembling knightess.

"I said take that back." She repeated as she rose to her feet.

"And why should I? Is my bad-mouthing also considered a sin, now? Are you going to try and kill me again for calling things as they are?"

The three of them watched as the Keeper curled her hands into fists and approached Argon. she seemed ready for round two.

"You can say what you want about me, I don't care." She stopped walking when she was mere inches away from Argon's mask.

"But don't you _dare_ speak a word against Lord Gwyndolin with that blasphemous mouth of yours."

Argon scoffed before rapping against her helm with his knuckle. He was mildly amused that she had enough fire in her to stare him down, let alone want to engage in a fistfight.

"Blasphemous, am I? Then what would that manipulating son of bitch be considered?"

It seemed that was the straw that broke the camel's back. Before the undead knew it, he was forced to dodge a fast left-hook, followed by a kick aimed for his chest. He uttered a chuckle when her attempt to trip him failed and returned the gesture with a quick slap to her back, sending the knightess stumbling forward.

* * *

"Argon, this isn't you. Please stop this." Priscilla begged but it fell on deaf ears as she watched the two collide. This time it was the Keeper that was on the defensive as Argon fired off open palm strikes to the woman's shoulders, waist, and chest. When his combination of hits had finished, he had begun to use his legs; using his boot to strike the knightess' ankle, chest and helm in quick succession before delivering a strong roundhouse. The sound of her brass armour scraping against the clean tiles was like someone had dropped an anvil into a quiet library.

"Sir Havel, we need to stop him," the cross breed breathed in desperation as she attempted to push away the Bishop's arm. "he's not in the right state of mind and if this continues, he'll end up killing her."

Although a simple duel of hand-to-hand combat wasn't that fatal, Argon was pitted against the Keeper of Anor Londo. If she was dead set on killing him after he had tried to claim Gwyndolin's soul then she would not tire in her attempts now that she had been riled up. Argon wouldn't intentionally kill her but if she continued her way of attack then she would collapse from exhaustion, and that armour didn't look like it would comfort her fall.

Other than that, she didn't know what the undead was thinking in that head of his. If he was suddenly struck by a lucky shot to the face, there was fear that he might start allowing that violent split-personality of his to take over. And personally, she didn't want to see someone who had accepted them into her domain die due to hate-speech and taunting. Hopefully Sir Havel's thoughts copied her sentiments. If she could get him on board then this needless fight would end.

"She will be fine, Priscilla."

"S-Sir Havel?" the cross breed paled as she stared at the unmoving Archbishop.

"Just watch."

She couldn't believe it. Even the honourable Havel the Rock was content to watch as a Firekeeper was beaten to a bloody pulp. She wouldn't stand for it.

With a mighty shove, she managed to force Havel's arm down and began to approach the two people engaged in a pointless battle. However, as she was about intervene, Havel's shadow covered her form before she was yanked back by the arm around her waist.

"Sir Havel! Let me go at once, this battle needs to be stopped!"

"I told you to watch, now don't make me say it again, dammit." The Bishop grumbled; his eyes focused on the two before him. He didn't like the idea of watching a woman getting pummelled either, but there was a method to Argon's madness that he wanted to see play out, even if Priscilla didn't see recognise it yet. Argon had become different, that was true, but his actions and motives were still the same. That sole reason was why he refused to intervene. His trust in the undead was unwavering, and he would be damned if he were to just see the broken man as a completely different person just because he had had enough of the lies clouding his judgement.

Perhaps the reasons for his companion snapping and lashing out at Gwyndolin were more complex than Havel gave them credit for – and if he trusted his gut then they definitely were – however, right now he understood his companion. And however messed up his methods were, he was content to allow the undead to play them out until the end. He just hoped that their cross breed would soon figure it out and feel the same.

* * *

"What do you care whether I slander fem-boy's name?" Argon pondered, ducking from a punch and retaliating with a solid knee to the Keeper's helm. "Weren't you content with dying a few minutes ago?"

"You have no right to bring Lord Gwyndolin into this!"

"You're right, I don't." Argon blocked a gauntlet aimed for his mask. "I just enjoy making things personal."

The knightess growled as she advanced, hands raised to strike. However, it was only after she had madly dashed forward that she realised the error of her ways. In a flash, Argon planted his knee into her midsection. Although she was wearing armour to compensate, the force in that raised leg caused her platemail to buckle. He followed up with an elbow to her helm and she spun before hitting the floor.

She scurried to get to her feet and when she opened her mouth to breathe, she felt warm blood running out from her nose. Still filled with anger that he would violate her master's name, she blindly ran forward. This time it only took him one strike to knock her down. Her armour clattered loudly as she skidded across the floor, panting like an overworked hound.

"You… will pay for… your foul words."

Argon harrumphed as he stared at the downed woman. "Do you really think that's possible? Look at you."

The Keeper gasped as she shakily rose to her feet. The undead uttered another tired sigh as he cracked his knuckles.

"At least that hopeless fool could have trained you better… what use is getting back up anyways? Was fem-boy proficient in teaching his subjects how to be masochists too?"

"Lord Gwyndolin… is the greatest master I know, and he means _everything_ to me." She replied weakly. It was clear she couldn't continue fighting, yet she still limped towards him until his shadow covered her form. With some effort, she lifted her head to meet his gaze. "Do not sully his name. Say what you will about me instead. I've no purpose in this life anyways…"

Argon narrowed his eyes at the woman.

"Is that so?" he asked. When she didn't reply he shrugged his shoulders. The silence that settled over the four of them lasted only a few seconds before the sound of warped metal filled the air. When the Keeper looked forward, she saw Argon's fist buried in her abdomen.

The woman choked before a mouthful of blood erupted from her mouth, pouring out of her visor like rainwater through and aqueduct. The force of the strike was so great even her feet had left the ground for a moment. As stars began to fill her line of sight, she saw the undeads boot coming toward her face but was too weak to even register the pain as she sent skidding across the floor once again. She knew the Chosen Undead was powerful, but this was beyond her imagination.

"Stop it Argon, you're going to kill her!" she heard Priscilla plead and managed a weak laugh. Wasn't she already dead inside?

Argon looked at the woman laying on the floor before him, a fist-sized dent in her armour. He had thought that she would understand, given her past was similar to his own. He knew that his decision to try and slay a god might have been one of his more idiotic ideas but his choice was something she should have understood at a single glace.

Yet, here they all stood. In this mess of emotions, time and place; and she thought _she_ had nothing to live for? The sight of that pitiful form on the ground annoyed him. It didn't matter whether she had placed all of her trust and hopes on his shoulders, he would not take responsibility for something so freely given on a whim. She was indecisive too. One moment she wanted to die by his hand, the next she wanted to protect Gwyndolin's name.

She, like him, was a disorientation of feelings that needed sorting. Perhaps it was all the time spent up here, alone with her own thoughts and idleness that caused her to be like this. Even so, it was agitating that she behaved as if there was nothing left for her in this sham of a world, especially considering the fact that she still had _everything_.

It made him angry, thirsty to empty both her body and soul onto the floor for her stupidity, but her relented. Instead, he walked up to her panting body and lifted her by the hinge of her breastplate. It was almost like lifting the lid of a chest if he ignored the clinking metal and wheezing breaths she gave.

When she was on her knees and staring up at him, he used his other hand to lift her helm and throw it behind him. What stared back at him was a face of gruesome appearance. It was difficult to tell if she was even alive with that glassy stare of hers.

"I you have no purpose in life, why are you trying to hard, huh?" her hairless eyebrows twitched for a moment before furrowing in thought. "You should have died after I punched you, but for some reason you're still clinging to a life you want to so freely give away."

The Keeper stared at the floor. It was clear she didn't know the answer.

"People like you are detestable. Instead of desperately grabbing onto the only life you have, you choose to give it away after your expectations are shot down, and reality begins to seep in. You refuse to acknowledge the truth and shatter your own bones to escape it.

"But what you don't realise is that the truth you try to run away from is the one you frantically yearn for. What pisses me off though is the fact that you have a purpose but choose to squander it."

"How bold of a betrayer."

Argon snarled under his mask before wrapping his hand around her throat. "Rejoice in the news that you _have_ another route to walk through. Your life may feel like agony, but it's nothing compared to the suffering of so many others. At least you have a master to serve, most don't even have a father."

The knightess looked at him, her thoughts swirling in her head like a muddy river.

"But how can a face like mine even deserve a second chance?"

Argon raised an eyebrow before pulling his mask off. His multi-coloured eyes stared deeply into hers. "Does it look like mine does?" she stared at the black veins contrasting against the pale white complexion.

Argon released his hold on her before drawing his Velkian rapier. The occultic magic seeped into his system before the world turned monochrome around him, blanketing the Keeper, Havel and Priscilla in a shadowy silhouette. The urge to use it was intoxicating, yet he ignored the temptation as he dropped it at the knightess' feet; and immediately all colour returned to his senses.

"You're not worth staining my hands. So, if you want an end to a life you see as worthless, use that sword. However, if you know yourself, and I know you do, you'll remember that there's still _one_ person worth living for."

Argon watched as the knightess lowered her hands to grasp the hilt of the blade but stopped, her fingers a hairs breadth away. She looked up to him.

"Is that really all it takes?"

"I don't care about this world, its people or its plans. However, as long as there's a single person I hold dear, I'll fight until I make their prosperity a reality, regardless of what it costs me." Argon put his mask back on and walked toward the east corridor. The Keeper watched as Havel dragged a confused Priscilla with him to follow their companion.

"Death is not a mercy." Argon stated when he was under the entrance of the building leading to the Duke before he turned around, the pale moonlight now shining upon his mask. "At least, not for you and me."

And then he and his companions left, leaving behind nothing but her battered body and the influx of her thoughts.

* * *

"HAH! Yes! … oh, bloody hell that hurts."

"I warned you that jumping was unwise."

"No, you told me that I _should_ jump at the bug and it would recoil from shock."

"Dear me… what was I thinking?"

"HOW THE HELL SHOULD I KNOW?!"

Laurentius caught himself as the pain flooded his mind again. It was not comforting to have lava sprayed into an open wound. It was even less pleasant to be told by the person that told you to do it that you were an idiot for attempting to do it in the first place.

"Come now, don't sulk about such paltry matters. At least we killed it."

Solaire was right about that, at least. They had been thrown around the cavern like ragdolls, sliced and stabbed by those creepy wriggling legs made of iron and sprayed with _so_ much lava that the pyromancer thought he was pretty much clean-shaven by now.

"Still though, for it to only drop a ring is strange." Laurentius mumbled as he pushed the orange accessory out of the boiling liquid fire with the tip of his axe.

"Are you forgetting the many souls we were given?" Solaire said. The pyromancer turned to the glowing yellow phantom who was currently standing in a small puddle of lava. He knew phantoms didn't feel as much pain from an attack compared to the person they were assisting but wasn't he at least a bit aware of his phantasmic feet burning? And how was it possible that he could run on lava without a care in the world?!

When he had first told Laurentius of how he had run from the Centipede Demon they had just killed, he had thought the man insane. However, after witnessing his phantom form sprinting over the stuff _whilst_ defending and attacking, he was beginning to understand just how formidable his new friend was.

"You're right, that was a lot of souls but without a merchant nearby, how can we use it?"

Solaire waved his index finger in the air as he clicked his tongue. The way in which he did so made Laurentius imagine this sly grin on his helmed face.

"Yet again, you forget the things that stand before your eyes, Laurentius."

The pyromancer quirked an eyebrow. "And what have I been missing?"

His glowing friend pointed an overjoyed finger toward the entrance they had previously come though. The swamp-dweller turned around and noticed the bonfire from before softly cracking in the distance.

"You want us to use our souls in that way?"

"Weaponry and armour aren't the _only_ way to strengthen oneself. As undead, we have the ability to transcend human means. With that knowledge, a good way to sharpen your sword is to become your sword."

Laurentius nodded along with the man's logic. He was right, one of the reasons undead are so feared is due to their ability to use souls to become faster, stronger, and even smarter if the conditions are met. Whilst possessing the best armour and weapons affordable to you was a great way to become indominable, buffing up on souls was like spiking your Estus flask with Power Within to give it an extra kick.

The pyromancer gulped a mouthful from his Estus before turning back to Solaire. "With the way you word things, you and Argon could be brothers."

"I'm sorry, did you say 'Argon'?!" the knight asked with excitement brimming in his voice.

Yet again, Laurentius frowned in confusion. It was like someone had just flipped a switch that made him go from serious to exuberant. "Um… yes. Do you kno-"

"PRAISE THE SUN!"

"Wha- Hey, why are you hugging me?" he stared at the knight in confusion as he glomped Laurentius in a bear hug, only to faze right through him and fall to the floor, splashing lava and boiling hot pebbles everywhere.

"Well this is odd." Solaire stated plainly as he sat on the floor before jumping up, unintentionally throwing a handful of melting stones at the swamp-dweller.

"Oi! Watch the lava!" Laurentius cried as he jumped back. Most of his clothing had already been melted thanks to that ugly bug with the face. He didn't want to lose anymore, lest he be running around Izalith without a shirt or trousers on. He wasn't like his masked friend that chose to fight every invader he came across bare.

"So you know Argon, huh?" he asked Solaire, who was patting off imaginary dust from his clothes.

"Indeed. He was the first one that I came across who didn't mind my appearance or manner of communication."

"That does sound like him."

"Although, now that I think about it with a clearer head, he was rather strange as well. Perhaps more peculiar than I!" the knight laughed heartily. Laurentius couldn't resist doing the same. That sounded a _lot_ like Argon.

"How is he? Last I saw, we were in the Kingdom of Sunlight."

"You travelled with Argon to Anor Londo?" Laurentius was wide-eyed. He knew Solaire was strong, but he didn't think he was _that_ strong. Then again, if he were to think about travelling with _that_ undead, it made sense that you needed to be powerful to accompany him. He wasn't one to boast, but he _did_ do his fair share of adventuring with said masked undead and his fluffy-tailed companion, so he wasn't out of the running just yet.

Even so, for the yellow knight to claim that he made it to the Shining City was not a joke someone could simply dismiss. Solaire must have been extremely powerful to manage braving Sen's Fortress, and with a maniacal Chosen Undead in tow.

"Accompany him? I'm afraid not." The pyromancer paused and regarded Solaire with a blank expression.

"Pardon me… what was that, mate?"

"You have been pardoned," Solaire chimed with what the swamp-dweller could imagine was a smile behind that helm. "unfortunately, I was not with the brave soul when I ventured into Anor Londo. If I remember correctly, it was only during my tenth morning that he and I crossed paths inside of the castle walls." He finished, a hand under where his chin would have been.

Laurentius, for his part, simply sweat-dropped. If he was to believe the glowing knight with a smiling sun on his chest correctly, it was that he had gone into Sen's Fortress, a universal death trap, managed to reach the top of that living nightmare and enter the sacred kingdom that was Anor Londo. Thereafter, he had spent ten full days there _and_ pulled off entering the castle where he and Argon were reunited.

If he were to process this information carefully – and he was doing so with utmost care – it would mean that Solaire was not only the second person in history to enter the Shining City but also strong enough to get there by his _own _strength.

The pyromancer took a moment to stare at his phantasmic companion once again. Solaire was busy doing that thing he did when he was first summoned. He looked kind of like an eagle if he looked at it from a certain angle. He was also murmuring something incoherent that Laurentius couldn't make out.

The pyromancer simply deflated at the sight and sighed, placing a hand on his head.

_Yep, another crazy crackpot with more than a few bolts missing… where do they all come from?_

"Ah, that's right, I nearly forgot," Solaire spoke up and dug a hand into his pouch before tossing something to Laurentius. "here you go."

The swamp-dweller caught it and splayed his fingers to get a better look at the object he was given. It looked like a circular relief of some kind at first, but after considering its weight, size, and familiar smiling sun emblem, Laurentius came to understand that it was actually a medal. Strangely it was also oddly warm, and he didn't mean hot because they were in Izalith, but warm as in it felt rather soothing to the skin.

"A gift from me to you." Solaire stated. "You found my summon sign by its brilliant aura, and we both engaged in jolly co-operation. For that, we are no longer mere acquaintances but friends, brothers of the rising sun."

The explanation made Laurentius smile. It wasn't every day you found a person as friendly as Solaire, especially in conditions like these. It was even rarer for a person to just simply announce that they were your ally after less than a few hours together.

"Thanks mate."

"My pleasure."

Solaire was very much an oddity like their masked friend, but he was like the pleasantness of the first sip from a fresh pint of ale. Someone so refreshing and warm that he didn't mind the strangeness at all.

He gazed at the medal in his hand again. This served as more than a show of goodwill, but an olive branch that you would be hard-pressed to find anywhere else in Lordran, maybe even the world. He would treasure this, perhaps even invite him to meet his soon-to-be squeeze if he survived down here in the belly of the beast called Izalith.

"Wait, hold on just a moment…" Laurentius pocketed the medal and withdrew his bottomless box from another pouch under his Izalith coat.

Solaire watched his new friend with interest as he raised a miniature-sized chest in his palm before dropping it to the ground. His eyes nearly bugged out of his visor when the tiny trinket grew to the size of treasure chest that slammed against the floor with a loud crash, sending hot rocks in every direction – including through his phantasmic form.

"My… well that was a very interesting thing to observe." The knight said as the pyromancer threw open the lid of his chest and dug his arms into it.

It took him some time before he gave a shout of triumph and took something out of the box before tossing it as Solaire. The knight had to jump to catch the unexpected projectile before he turned it over and stared at it with curious eyes.

The familiar warmth was the first thing he noticed, followed by the reassuring weight before he saw the identical smiling sun on the flat surface of the circular piece of metal.

"Ah! You are already familiar with this custom? How foolish of me, I should have asked first."

"Actually, that was given to me by Argon." Laurentius replied as he pocketed his now tiny version of a chest. The knight blinked. How did he manage to do that? What peculiar magic, and very intriguing to boot. "When he saved me from being eaten in the Depths, he gave that to me as a show of our newfound camaraderie."

"The same Depths where he, myself and that golden knight with the odd swords killed the sewer dragon?"

"You mean it was _you_ guys that killed the Gaping Dragon?!" Laurentius exclaimed in awe, his jaw slack.

"Oh, yes. It was quite feisty but after we severed it's tail… things became easier."

The swamp-dweller was left speechless. He had heard from Griggs and one of the merchants that new lived in Firelink that someone had killed that monstrosity of stink and teeth. To come to the understanding that one of those dragon slayers had been the man _in front_ of him, however, was a great shock. This guy just never failed to amaze him, and he so damn humble about everything!

"Well… we should probably get going then. You said you were resting near another sea of lava like this one, right?"

"Indeed, it's just through that tunnel to the left. Come find me after you've rested at the bonfire. I'm sure that with your help, I may be able to find my own sun down her-"

**BOOM!**

Both men stopped what they were doing and turned to the tall walls around them. There was silence for a while for the same sound echoed around the area they stood in, shaking the walls and stalactites of rock.

"Um, Solaire… did you hear that?"

"I think I did."

"Do… you know what that was?"

"Not a clue. I wasn't aware of any other demon down here besides the large one at the entrance of the Izalith Rui-"

**BOOM!**

Both men looked at each other dead in the eye.

"You _did_ manage to slay that lava-oozing beast before coming here… right?"

"No, I used an alternate route to get here."

"There was an alternate route?"

"Well no, I climbed down the walls to the floors not covered in liquid fire," he didn't want to spill the secret that he had been showed an easier method to get to the lower floors just yet. "How did you arrive down here?"

"Oh well…"

"Please don't tell me you ran across that bed of lava as well?"

"Haha… well you see-"

**CRASH!**

The pair of undead shielded themselves as something gargantuan slammed into the are they were standing in, sending waves of lava and molten rock in all directions. They were lucky enough that the waves subsided by the time they reached the island the pyromancer and phantom were standing in.

Unfortunately, they weren't lucky enough to avoid the spire-tall monster towering above them, covered head-to-toe in oozing liquid flame. It was a beast both men had done their best to avoid when they had first entered into what was left of Izalith. A beast that Eingyi had described as a monster no soul knew much about.

And that monster was named the Ceaseless Discharge.

Laurentius gulped as the demon glared down at the two of them. This was it. He was certainly done for now. There would be no reuniting with his good friend and oddball Argon, no joking around with Priscilla and he wouldn't get the chance to remember how soft the lips of his dear Quelana felt against his own. And of course, this would be last moment he would spend with his new friend, legend and oddball, Solaire.

With a sad look on his beardless features, Laurentius wondered why his luck always ended up with monsters trying to eat him. Perhaps when he finally died, went hollow, got killed by Argon who would know that he failed in his mission and _finally_ went to whatever Heaven existed up there, he would find out…

The beast roared loudly as its red eyes settled on him and Solaire before it began advancing forward. It was slow but those pools of lava growing at its feet would definitely catch up to them soon. It wouldn't take long to melt their skin off from their bones. Probably less than a few minutes at best, he had done the math.

"Buck up, lad, let this not be your final resting place!" Solaire said before giving his cheek a light slap. The pyromancer was forced out of his daze before his mind began thinking of certain tactics to avoid being turned into a crispy undead. He went to take a step forward before a glint caught his eye, forcing him to look down.

It was then that he remembered the ring the Centipede Demon had dropped. With a bit more life in his movements, Laurentius picked up the ring and examined it. He had never seen such a thing before, and if he observed the filigree of ancient runes carved into the band, it was clearly an item of old Izalith.

"Have you an idea, Laurentius?" Solaire asked as he drew his phantasmic sword once more.

"Sort of. Take a look at this ring. Its one made by Izalith."

"And what do you suppose it does?"

The pyromancer shook his head. "No clue. All I know is that it came from the centipede Demon."

"Is that a good thing?"

"Well, when we faced it, it was able to walk on lava."

"Don't all demons in Izalith do so, however?" the knight questioned as he flung a bolt of lightning at the slowly approaching foe. His aim was true, yet it seemed like it did no good. There was a mild crackle of lightning around the forehead of the monster but nothing more.

"Well, yes, but the one we faced just now seemed to be more resistant to it."

"Now would be a good time to prove your point, the beast is almost upon us."

"Maybe it has something to do with this ring." He said finally, making Solaire turn to him.

"So, you mean this ring nullifies the burn of lava?"

"Guess so."

"Are you certain?"

"We won't know unless we try."

Solaire nodded for a moment before taking the ring from Laurentius' hand. "Well, here goes."

"Huh? What do you mea- By Gwyn, why did you throw it at the demon?!"

Solaire turned back to Laurentius in what looked like confusion in an odd sort of way. "Oh… did you have a different plan?"

"Yes, it was to put it on and get the hell out of here. There _are_ two exits, remember?"

"Ahh. I had completely forgotten about that. Terribly sorry."

"It's alright, let's just see what we can do to slow this thing down."

The yellow knight nodded in agreement before both of them turned to the hulking mass of bleeding flame and brimstone. They were about to charge when they noticed that the thing had stopped moving.

Upon closer inspection, it seemed like the thing was in some sort of discomfort before it began to moan. Then the unexpected happened.

As if time itself was reversed, the monster began _shrinking_ dramatically until it was the size of a normal human before it exploded, showering the area around it with lava.

Laurentius flinched as large globules of the substance was sent hurtling towards them. He closed his eyes and raised his arms to shield himself from the brunt of the force when Solaire stepped in front of him, shield raised. The impact of the lava jerked his phantom body but he stood strong.

Both men waited for a few moments before they simultaneously peeked their heads above the shield only to see the form of a pale young man in burnt robes lying unconscious in a pool of lava. Even though the very sight of the man was odd to begin with, it was even more perplexing that he wasn't being eaten alive by the dangerous liquid his body was floating in.

Solaire dropped his shield to his side as Laurentius sighed out in relief. That had just been too close for comfort.

he watched Solaire walk over the lava without a care in the world to stand beside the man. With a tilt of his helmet he crouched down and picked up something that was resting on the pale man's chest before raising it up for Laurentius to see.

The orange glow of the Izalith ring caught the pyromancer's eye before Solaire let out an amused chuckle.

"Well that was easy."

* * *

**Word Bank **

1\. **Alexithymia – **(n.) the inability to express your feelings.

* * *

**Ze Explanation: The Darkmoon Knightess **

**I know that the Darkmoon Knightess is called the Darkmoon Knightess, but I found calling her 'the Keeper' and 'the Brass Firekeeper' a better fit. Now, I've done research on why her body is deformed and it stated in a wiki that its due to the surge of humanity in her body that deformed her skin. After learning this, I still wanted her back story to be more tragic so I mention a vague memory of how she was mistreated when she was human. This could mean many things from her being abused, to the xenophobia shown against her like the humans did to Anastasia, etc. I didn't want to be too specific with that, just the fact that her deformity is also due to her time as a human, and one of the reason's Gwyndolin took her under his wing.**

**The whole lifeless thing Argon hammers out of her is due to Argon not living up to the expectations she had of him. In her mind, after witnessing his unbendable determination, she begins to think that he would be the one to change the mindset of the cruelty of most of humanity. However, after he gains the hostility sin from fighting Gwyndolin, her mind breaks and starts to think that it's all a means to end, thus the complete submission when Argon disarms her.**

**I can't exactly remember if you possess that eternal sin after killing Gwyndolin in game (probably not) but basically, he has a similar sin like the one you get after killing Gwynevere's illusion. The only difference here is that the sun doesn't disappear. The sin will stay on Argon but it isn't as bad as the one you get after killing Gwynevere. Aaand… that's how my logic chose to make it… yeah. Because trying to kill the creator of said illusion deserves a lesser stain on your personal record, ne?**

* * *

**Other than that, I wanted to explain my take on how the magical rings work in Lordran.**

* * *

**Ze Explanation: The Magical Ring System in Lordran **

**We know that wearing two is the general maximum a person can wear at a time when in Lordran. My lore (if you could call it that) is that you cannot wear more because the magical buff is just too much for the body to handle since it's like filling a balloon with too much helium. The balloon, like the human body, is flexible, able to exceed its limits but not its genetics. If it exceeds certain parameters of magic, it will explode due to the influx of power, like the balloon. Take the pyromancy 'Power Within' for example; it grants you immense power at the cost of your own life-force. The reason it does that isn't just because it is magic derived from pure flame but because the spell turns your body's abilities into overdrive. Something that you naturally can't handle (I hope that was the correct explanation to use as an example. I haven't been able to play and SoulsBorne games for nearly two years now, dammit. My memory has tiny holes in the important parts that I need). **

**The magic rings work the same way, pushing the human (and in this case, the undead) body into a supercharged vessel. The magic works wonders, strengthening the body and buffing the capabilities; however, cells in the body can only regenerate so many times before they just die. A constant flow of overwhelming energy and any undead, one with a corrupted Lord Soul included, would simply go _poof_. They're just not able to handle that much power in a direct, unfiltered method.**

**However, in rare cases, undead are able to wear a third ring, but even then, it's pushing the envelope rather far. We've already seen Argon use many rings against Gwyndolin, although when you think about it, his mind was broken, he was abyssal and greatly masochistic. So, you could say that all those variables assisted in his overload of power when he used those rings.**

**With regard to the other games, you'll note that the MC's are not Chosen Undead but 'Bearers of the Curse' and the 'Ashen One'. They can wear more rings for several reasons, most notably though would be the theory that the magical properties of items there aren't as potent as Lordran's (though I doubt that); they're able to wear more of them because they just look cooler, or that the DS 2 and 3 programming was just better than the first one (most likely). So, I'm not contradicting things when I say the max is two rings in this fic.**

* * *

**Oh! I almost forgot to mention the whole Phantom thing. In Game, phantoms cannot speak, I know this. Funny story actually-**

**_-nobody cares._ **

**Shut it. Ahem!**

* * *

**Ze Explanation: The Phantoms In Game and how they can speak **

**So, originally, I had planned on allowing them to speak but I hadn't created the right plot for it. When writing the first battle between Argon and Kirk, my first idea was to make him physically warp there. Unfortunately, I had forgotten about that little (massive) bit of info and made him appear as a phantom that conversed normally. Also, for some reason Kirk was inflicted with the same wounds he garnered when attacked as a phantom. I think I explained that briefly somewhere in the actual story but it was very vague.**

**Now, I have not created a theory for this scenario. I just twisted the canon here whereby the phantoms can speak. Sorry if you were expecting some awesome theory of mine. However, now that I think about, perhaps there _is_ a theory regarding this flying around somewhere in my head. So, if I do manage to find that theory, I will present it to you in 'Ze explanation' somewhere later on.**

**For those of you wondering how Solaire was able to pass through Laurentius that one time when trying to hug him… that was his phantom form glitching or some synonym like that. He was in that form for too long and he momentarily became intangible.**

* * *

**Anyways, thanks for reading. Please Read and Review, I'd love to hear your thoughts – as always.**

**Take care and have an awesome day/evening/whatevertimeitisdammit**

**Ja ne**


	21. Chapter 21

**Aha! I just figured it out!**

**-_ugh._ **

**Don't be so glum, chum. Perhaps our next attempt to crack the strange and fragmented version of the Dark Souls package we downloaded with avail results we have yet to receive?**

**-_that makes this, what, the twenty-fourth attempt now?_ **

**And we shall go through twenty-four more until we find a method that works, or until there's another package that possesses a proper readme file and actual data file for easier installation.**

**-_I told you downloading it from IGG was a bad idea._ **

**Meh, the results are always jumbled. Downloading Civilization V was a cinch, as was the tower-defence game and the four text-based RPG'S that followed. If you ask me, its just the way the Dark Souls package is that makes it difficult to install properly.**

**-_for once, I agree. The discussion on the webpage was the same. If it isn't that one site was down, then its that the final application run-test is as stubborn as a mule to comply._ **

**That aside, I think we should alert author-san that the chapter needs to begin.**

**-_seriously? You're already using me as your third-person, do you really need to introduce another one?_ **

**No, I'm actually not joking this time.**

**-_wait, you mean you don't usually write the story?_ **

**Of course not, I'm the a/u persona. You are the illogical persona. The me that actually writes this stuff is over there.**

**(*Both Mihairu7's turn to look at the author, waving at them in the distance.)**

**-_well that's something I didn't expect._ **

**My sentiments exactly. On with ze story.**

* * *

It was faint but Argon could feel his sudden desire for rampage slip into a temporary coma as he walked between the tall legs of a nearby sentinel. He couldn't explain why – nor did he really feel a need to – but he felt less prone to violence, as if all that rage had been released after his first and second death since who knows how long. Perhaps all that screaming he vaguely remembered doing had emptied his reserves? He doubted that branch of possibility but it was a start at least. That wasn't all, however; it seemed that the attacks from the inhabitants living in the Shining City had become quite docile in a second of spontaneity as well. Argon dared a glance at the metal leggings of the sentinel he passed under with a nod of approval. They may have been standing stationary here for a few centuries but those bulging muscles hiding behind forged metal was an impressive sight. He almost felt as if he were passing through an archway of chrome.

After his visit to Gwyndolin, it seemed that all beings even remotely connected to Anor Londo's new king lacked their usual zeal for hacking him into pieces. Whilst he appreciated the gesture, it would have been nice to at least have one of them disobey orders and stir the pot. That way, he could test this unusual surge of power running through him all of a sudden, and the unique fighting style he had unknowingly switched to when facing the Lord of the Darkmoon.

That aside, however, he was surprised he hadn't severed that Keeper's head from her shoulders when she was prostrate before him. She had been the one to instigate their bout, yet she had disrespected the ancient law of undead duelling. And to make matters worse for herself, she had lost to him – not that it was startling to anyone that had witnessed the fight.

By all rights, though, he should have killed her. Not because of his unexplainable bloodlust, but because she had sullied the _one_ thing this decrepit body of land held dear to itself. He wasn't an enforcer of any undead rights but such action deserved just punishment, especially for an unrighteous knightess.

As the undead trudged up the dirt path leading toward the previously sealed-off entrance to the Duke's manor, he allowed his eyes a moment to rest on his companions.

Although that entire battle had been one-sided from the beginning, and in the end, it had cost him his rapier, Havel had abstained from his usual nit-picking and words of wisdom. Discovering that the old goat had understood his intentions was something he had had to raise an amused eyebrow toward. After all, it was neigh impossible for him and the ex-Bishop to ever see eye-to-eye.

However, when it came to his fluffy-tailed, slender formed, white-haired, and emerald-eyed princess, matters were of an opposite nature. He didn't blame her for not understanding his motives – quite frankly he didn't understand them himself. However, the thought that this would most certainly become an on-going event with the woman left a bland taste in his mouth.

Honestly, he had imagined that after witnessing the abundance of iron-scented paint he had used to graffiti the hallowed halls of Anor Londo with, she would have packed up her nerves and tail before departing from his grotesque sight. Any other sane person would have done so long ago, he agreed, but then again, _she_ was not another sane person to begin with.

He noticed each and every look she gave him ever since they had left her uncle's presence. Honestly, he wouldn't have been the Chosen Undead if he had missed them. They had all possessed a rather interesting combination of emotions to choose from as well. In fact, they were so diverse that he couldn't decide which one he liked the most.

A look of confusion, followed by worry; a glance of rage accompanied by sadness, a direct stare of longing with a few drops of joy. And the most current one; a peeping amount of curiosity that held a minor squeeze of indecisiveness. He knew that one well. Her mind was probably arguing against itself, deliberating on whether to berate him for his actions or resign her words for the simple reason that he was merely… not himself.

Argon turned his head back toward the looming corridor in front of him and sighed in the fleeting silence around the three of them, the sound entering the open space like the silvery wisp of a ghost's torn tassels against cold walls.

He didn't wish to confuse or even mislead the cross breed. He just wanted to reaffirm his own existence. That was becoming difficult for a number of reasons, however, and she was one of them. As usual, it wasn't her fault, it was plainly his. How he wished he had never been privy to those lost memories that sent his mind into a game of eternal limbo without repose.

But that didn't matter at the moment. There were more important things to do besides reluctantly dive into his shattered psyche in order to find something he wanted to remain hidden forever; one of those important things being his party's current route towards the Everlasting Dragon himself.

Argon stole another breath as his feet crunched against the warm ground beneath his boot. He felt as if his lungs were constricting with each passing thought of the moments he had left his morals behind to try and choke the life out of Gwyndolin. He agreed that his head wasn't right, and that rushing into the lair of one of the vessels of Gwyn's soul was undoubtedly foolish, but it was too late to stop now. The only thing he could do was hope that whatever lie beyond this cool cavern didn't break what little gist of strength he had left.

The masked undead thought about what he was about to endure before a wry grin crossed his features.

_If the calm and funny me that begun this journey had to see me now, I wonder how he would react…_

"So this is leads to the Duke, huh?" Argon asked as Havel and Priscilla reached his side. "I know I should have expected this but a front door would have been nice." Argon peered up at the tallest spire of the pale castle in the distance. The thought that more stairs awaited them was not a reassuring prospect.

Havel grunted in reply, adjusting his gauntlet as he peered into the shadowed passage. "There used to be a more direct way into that accursed castle. Unfortunately, the knave garnered trust issues and a need for secrecy after my attempt to uncover his dastardly deeds," the Bishop prodded the base steps with his boot, "this was made shortly after my exile, and the old way was caved in by what masonry workers still lived here at the time."

Argon hummed in response, catching the gaze Priscilla gave him. His eyes bore into her own and he found her shivering before looking away with a frown, her hands folding behind her stiff back. the undead clenched his jaw. He was well aware that his past actions made him seem repulsive to the fairer sex, which is why he couldn't explain why his chest felt so tight at that expected reaction. He knew there must have been several reasons, but his mind was too unfocused to come to any sound conclusions.

Nevertheless, he could worry about his fading sense of romance later. First, he needed to solve the mystery in his head, and then ensure that all three of them made it out of Seath's manor alive and mentally intact.

As the undead thought about how challenging it would be to face a true Everlasting Dragon, the sound of deep, gruff breathing entered his ears. With a frown, Argon swivelled his head back to the entrance of the passageway only to see something burly and shiny scuffing its front leg against the clean tiles.

"What's that over there?" Havel and Priscilla peered through the corridor with squinted eyes. Even though there was a soft blue glow from the structure's walls, it was still difficult to make out what stood at the far end due to the waning of the sun above.

From their angle, the pair behind their masked comrade could make out the glint of steel and the sound of armour clicking against one another. What struck both of them as odd, however, was the loud scraping of something against the smooth floor, something heavy.

Argon placed a hand under his mask in thought, his other hand cupping his bent elbow. It sounded strangely familiar yet he couldn't quite place it. Deciding that perhaps a higher vantage point would help him uncover what lied beyond the shadows, he climbed the steps in front on him until he was at the top and peered through the gloom.

The scraping turned into a progressive thudding almost immediately. The Chosen Undead frowned. He _knew_ that sound well, and it was irking him that he couldn't identify it.

_Perhaps I should get a second opinion._

With a spin, Argon turned to his companions who were equally as stumped. He was glad that the previously tense atmosphere had been broken yet he wasn't so sure such intense confusion was a better distraction. It would just get on everyone's nerves.

It was only after both Priscilla and Havel lifted their heads toward their friend that their confusion abated, and fear began to set in. Before their eyes, a large boar decorated in shining armour appeared from the shadows of the passage, its tusks set on crushing Argon as it galloped excitedly towards his vulnerable back.

Both companions knew of Lordran's armoured boars; Havel from the pets Smough's master used to keep, and Priscilla from her travels with Argon and Laurentius, respectively. As such, they both knew that when a beast of broad form charged at an object with such vigour, the end result was never as pleasant – especially with those ivory tusks as thick as a scimitar was sharp.

"Argon, turn around!" Havel shouted; his hand outstretched even though he knew it was too late.

"Huh?" Argon turned his head in confusion as the boar entered his line of sight, less than a few meters away from trampling him into a mushy mess.

Havel's eye's widened as Priscilla covered hers.

In what seemed like a miracle; however, the great pig stamped its front legs down hard, skidding to a halt just before the entrance of the passage. The wind it created blew Argon's hair around as he stood motionless, staring at the beast's wet mouth blankly.

That was… until it expelled a gust of warm air in Argon's masked face, causing him to gag.

"Damn Wilbur," he dry heaved, "what have they been feeding you?"

Priscilla pulled her scythe out from behind her back and made to approach the sow. She may have been conflicted when it came to the masked undead, but she would be damned if some red-eyed and overgrown hog would hurt someone she still cared for.

With her arm bent back to cleave off a tusk and half of the beast's snout, Priscilla reached Argon's side in less than a second before she swung. The air whistled as the enchanted blade cut through it before an arm reached out and grabbed her wrist, the tip of her blade stopping a hair's breadth away from the boar's snout.

"Whoa, easy there." Argon scolded, one of his fingers grazing the shaft of her scythe. In a split-second, he felt a barrage of poison, toxin and a minor curse attempt to invade his body, and he tensed.

The goddess seemed to notice this immediately and quickly pulled her arm away, resting her scythe back onto the makeshift sheathe on her back, shock evident on her face.

"Ah! Forgive me Argon."

Argon shook his head as the status effects abated, leaving him with a mild headache. He would have to remember that accidentally touching that scythe of hers could kill him if he wasn't careful.

"It's okay," he said and sniffed, it appeared that his nose was also bleeding. "I just wanted to say that dicing this guy up isn't the best solution."

"He's right," Havel quipped as he stomped up towards them. "your scythe may be able to slay a god but that armour the boar is outfitted with is quite sturdy."

The Bishop rapped a fist against the beast's jangling plates of armour and it let out another gruff puff of breath, making all three of them gag.

"Ugh… that's not what I was trying to say but the old man is right."

Argon ignored the Havel's growl as he equipped his pyromancy glove.

"So your idea is to burn it?" Priscilla asked with a frown. "That seems a bit cruel."

"Crueller than sucking it's soul out with a blade that infects it simultaneously?"

The cross breed rose a pale finger to object but stopped halfway. He had a point there.

"The more the two of you argue, the more chance it has to attack."

Argon clicked his tongue before wagging his finger at the armoured man. "Fear not, o wise Archbishop and behold!" he pointed back at the boar who was, surprisingly, just standing in front of the trio and grunting loudly.

"It looks like it can't or won't leave the passageway."

"That doesn't explain why it's not attacking."

"Sir Havel is correct," Priscilla supplied. "it is odd that it shows no sign of hostility after it attempted to trample you."

"Perhaps it's friendly?" Argon's reply met silence and he chuckled, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.

"Or perhaps we aren't seen as hostiles since we're not technically _inside_ the corridor it watches."

Both comrades seemed to consider the idea for a moment before they were met by another gust of wet and retched boar breath. With sour faces, they took a few steps away from the beast.

"Anyways, that's not the point." Argon said as he conjured a bright flame in his hand.

"Then hurry up and get to it."

"Hush grandpa or you'll pop a blood vessel." Havel ground his teeth at the reply, glaring at Argon through his helm as the undead skipped down the stairs and cocked his arm back.

"Why don't we just smash the damn thing? It'll cost us less time standing around like fools."

"Because that would be a perfect waste of good meat."

Havel snapped his head towards the undead. "You want to _eat_ it?"

"Why not? It would make for some tasty ribs."

"A vile animal eaten by another vile animal. How apt."

"Wha? Don't tell me you don't eat wild hog?" Argon gasped as he stared at the ex-Archbishop.

Havel merely huffed with folded arms.

"You cannot be serious." The undead deadpanned.

"I may not be an elder of the church anymore but my personal choice to refrain from eating a literal cannibal still stands."

"That's the reason?!"

"Besides the fact that they eat anything and _everything_, and that they are one of filthiest animals in the world? Yes."

"I think you're confusing boars with pigs."

"Is there a difference?"

"Eh," Argon thought about it for a moment. "perhaps not."

Havel harrumphed before looking at the taller beast. It did look considerably cleaner than the ones he remembered… however, the smell it emanated left little to be desired.

"Meh, doesn't matter." Argon said as he launched the fireball at the hog. All three of them covered their ears at the loud squeal it made at the flames swallowed it whole. With that armour, it was probably safe to assume that it was being roasted inside-out as they stood there.

As the boar gave it's dying breath, it crashed to the floor on its side, cancelling the flames around it with a strong gust of wind. The new smell that permeated the entrance of the corridor was enough to make Argon's mouth water.

"Now _that's_ what I call fresh roast!"

"At least it left a space for us to walk through. How are you going to carry it though?"

"The end of your Dragontooth isn't just for show is it?"

"I'll be damned if I allow my prized weapon to be used to carry a sow!"

"Actually, you'll be dragging it."

"Oh, really? Well that does make sen- wait, why do I have to drag it?!"

Argon was about to reply when a loud growl echoed out from the corridor. Both men tensed and prepared to draw their weapons when a soft whimper forced them to turn around.

"Uhm… please excuse me." Priscilla mumbled with a flushed face, a hand against her stomach that seemed to growl again at the attention it garnered.

Havel sighed out and shook his head. Priscilla may have been someone of nobility that he actually didn't resent for once… but she was the biggest glutton – and he meant it with all certainty – he had ever met. He couldn't blame her for being unladylike since she was never taught proper etiquette but for Lloyd's sake, could she be even a little more ashamed? Argon didn't seem to care whenever they all sat down to eat together – why he and Argon even needed to eat when they were both undead was another story altogether – but then he supposed the masked man probably knew even less about table manners than their cross breed did. Either that or he just really didn't mind how ravenous Priscilla's hunger was…

"Well lookie here," Havel could imagine the grin plastered on the man's face. "At least _someone_ is excited about the feast we're going to have tonight."

At the mention of feast, the goddess seemed to whimper as her empty belly growled in appreciation.

Argon was about to suggest they get a move on and set up camp for the night before the boar got cold when a familiar grunting caught his attention.

The undead peeked under the dead boar's legs to see another armoured beast kicking up dust behind itself, red eye's burning in fury at the sight of its lost companion.

"Wilbur has a brother!" Argon cheered before skirting around the roasted boar and rushing the second one, another fireball in hand.

Havel sighed out in exasperation. He turned to ask the sane one of their group what her thoughts were but stopped when he saw the otherwise calm goddess drooling with wide green eyes at the dead boar at his feet; her clawed hands involuntarily flexing as if in anticipation for the moment she was allowed to devour the beast.

The Bishop palmed his helm as he set to work on binding the boar to his Dragontooth; pulling out a bundle of rope from his bottomless box – an item he had convinced Borgus to give him before leaving.

After all that had occurred and all the colossal emotions thrown haphazardly around the three of them, it was a pleasant sight to see Argon acting even a little bit like himself for once.

"Table for three please! Ya-ha-hoo!"

That being said, the bishop could certainly do without the inane exclamations and annoying retorts just _once_ on their journey.

* * *

"How do you suppose he came to be this way?" Solaire asked as he gently dabbed the sweat from the young boy's brow.

"I don't know," Laurentius replied, filtering a handful of souls into the bonfire in front of him. "any number of things could have caused the change really."

"Any theories?"

The pyromancer shrugged. He had studied under Salaman once upon a time when he was little more than a grubby child. He hadn't bothered to ask about the complexities of Izalith's fall or it's denizens when he was mesmerised by the fact that the man could conjure actual fire from his hands.

After the pair had dispelled the anthropoid from is fiery throne and calmed the swell of magma known as Ceaseless Discharge, Laurentius had carried the pale Izalith inhabitant towards the area Solaire's real body had been resting. They had tried to wake their newest companion with an array of methods from prodding, to shaking him; including the occasional hard slap across the cheek – which the Sun Knight was more than happy to do.

However, after countless futile attempts to wake the young man up and hours of waiting, nothing of value had occurred. Laurentius had supplied that perhaps they should let the fellow rest a while. After all, he had been stuck as a monstrosity of red eyes, tentacled arms and a plethora of oozing liquid fire as a sort of shapeless body. Solaire had thought about it for a moment before stating that they needed to reach the capital city before nightfall.

From what the iron-helmed man stated, the ruins and pathways leading towards the crown city of Izalith grew with an abundance of demons during the waning hours of the sun. As such, it would be difficult to stay in their current location, fend of hordes of other monsters possibly equal to the size of the one they had just faced _and_ protect and unconscious boy simultaneously.

Whilst the pyromancer agreed with the man, it wasn't exactly easy to wake up somebody who had been a mindless mass of magma for Gwyn knows how long. Besides that, how would they even know when nightfall came if they couldn't see the sun in the first place? To him, it always seemed like day underneath Lordran.

"Our plight aside, it seems that ring is doing its job in keeping that lava away from the young man." Solaire mused, prodding a finger against the orange ring fitted snugly around the pale pinkie finger of their sleeping acquaintance.

"Hate to wonder what it was like for him."

"Aye, my thoughts exactly." Solaire nodded for a moment before giving the boy a light slap on his left cheek.

When the action granted him no result, he shrugged and turned to his companion. "He's still out cold."

"As expected, I suppose," Laurentius grunted. He didn't expect the boy to wake up immediately, not when he had been trapped inside the very element he possessed dominion over for so long.

"Perhaps you should cease with trying to wake him up."

"Oh, I apologise if it has irritated you."

"It's not that. I just think that if you slap him anymore, that pale skin of his might burst with how red they've become."

"Oh… I didn't even notice."

"Maybe you should take your helm off. We are out of danger for now, I don't think there's a need to keep it on unnecessarily in this heat." The pyromancer offered, tugging at the neck of his robe.

"Thank you for the thought, but I'm perfectly fine." The knight replied with a cheeriness in his voice.

Laurentius smiled and nodded. Solaire had been like this from the time he had arrived on his island of surprisingly cold rock. He had finally understood what the man meant by another sea of lava and the vague description of dragon legs.

The crown city of Izalith was in view, he had understood as much after sitting down at the bonfire next to his friend. However, what stood in their way was room thrice the size of Quelaag's domain submerged in flowing lava that was nearly up to his calf.

There were these oddly sized roots from trees the colour of ash that he and the knight could walk on in order to bypass the lava, and there were two buildings in the area like watchtowers that were free from a drop of the corrosive substance. If they could manage to walk upon these tree roots, land within the space the watchtowers occupied and made a mad dash for what looked like a makeshift entryway into the city's battlements – which they definitely could – then their mission would be a cinch.

However, what they were not looking forward to – and what had prevented Solaire from continuing his journey thus far – was the 'dragon's legs' dotted around the perimeter of the open space.

They were more like the lower bodies of undead dragons, if the thick smell of decay and the sight of toxic flesh was anything to go by. Frankly speaking, such variable shouldn't be a problem since they were just the lower bodies of the near-extinct race. But from Argon had told him from his travels to the world of Ariamis, undead dragons have the annoying ability to make their severed limbs move. To be exact, their lower halves were just as sentient as their upper counterparts, meaning that if luck was not on their side – and it never was – they would potentially find themselves running from and battling these tall, fire-resistant body parts as they attempted to reach the entrance to Izalith, _whilst_ carrying an unconscious inhabitant on one of their backs.

The danger was cranked up to eleven as always and the risk of dying was what made it mildly exhilarating, but the prospect of being trampled on by a herd of angry undead dragon feet that could jump acres across boiling hot lava was _not_ a pleasant adventure.

Both men sighed as they stared out at the task before them. Perhaps if they did attempt to ram through the foes they had before them, they could use the boy they just saved as a human shield since he was immune to intense flame. However, even Laurentius wasn't that unchivalrous, and Solaire was an actual knight if the armour we wore and the way he spoke wasn't all an act – which the swamp-dweller highly doubted since the man was just too trusting.

"I wonder how Argon is doing." The pyromancer turned to his comrade with an amused smile.

"What brought this on?"

"I've been thinking about him ever since you mentioned that you were also his friend. It almost feels as if it's been years since he and I have crossed paths."

"I sympathise with you there," Laurentius replied with a grin. "I'm actually beginning to miss his outlandish claims and responses… even dear Priscilla's pouting whenever he teases her."

"Ah, yes. You mentioned that he had rescued someone from the Painting of Ariamis."

"You know it?" he raised an eyebrow to the man.

"I had to traverse around it to reach the castle in Anor Londo. Mind you, I didn't spend a lot of time admiring its articulate brushwork but I did stare at it long enough to shiver in trepidation."

"Was it that shocking to the undead eye?"

"Not at all. Although, a canvas the size of a barricade _is_ quite intimidating."

"It's that big?"

"Possibly bigger," Solaire nodded, "but what stirred up my unease was the aura of the painting itself. Whoever this Ariamis was, he left a sense of dread into his art, and it seemed to ooze into the very soul of the person that viewed it." Laurentius' eyes widened in response.

"I dare say that if it was possible, that embodiment of dismay would have pulled me into its very confines to suffer for eternity."

"Luckily, Argon had done it on your behalf."

"He entered into the painting?" Solaire asked in bemusement. Lordran was quite a peculiar place if it could make your wildest nightmares come true.

"He'll be sure to tell you the story when we both meet him again." The pyromancer took a gulp from the waterskin he kept on his person before offering it to the Sun Knight.

"Do remind me to ask, I find this most intriguing." Solaire lifted his helm above his mouth and took a grateful gulp of warm water.

"I'm just eager to get this over and done with." Laurentius replied, staring out at the glowing floor a few feet away. "The sooner we finish here, the sooner I can come back to Quelana."

"Hmm? Is that another friend of yours?"

The pyromancer grinned. "You could call her a friend for now, but I think her and I will become much more than that – if we haven't already reached that point."

"Ah, do continue." the knight offered a nod that showed his understanding. The swamp-dweller was all too happy to oblige.

"Well, you see… Quelana is actually my-"

"SISTER!"

Both undead recoiled in shock as their unconscious companion bolted into a sitting position as if he had been struck by lightning. His onyx eyes stared wild and unfocussed around him before he noticed Solaire and Laurentius on either side of him. He panted in an attempt to calm his racing heart as the undead turned to each other in silence.

It wasn't long until Solaire broke said silence.

"Well I wasn't expecting that at all."

* * *

Night fell like the first flakes of snow on dry ground. Upon reaching the end of the passageway, Argon and company found – to their relief – a bonfire slowly burning just a ways off from what looked like a more modernised lift system.

The room was square and had possessed an assortment of trinkets and stands made of tan-brown cedar and cool metal that shone light blue in the light the walls gave off. There wasn't much conversation from any of them as Argon merrily roasted the pair of boar's before he and Priscilla dined on them, indulging in the crispy crunch eat bite availed them; whilst Havel sat against the far wall, stating that he needed to clear his mind in preparation for when they braved the Archives in all its twisted glory.

Now, after the grand feast had been whittled down to ivory bones and the calming warmth of sleep had swallowed both the Chosen Undeads companions into a state of dreamy stasis, Argon breathed out heavily against a lone pillar; mask discarded and chest once more bare to allow the crisp chill of night to freeze his insides into relaxation.

Although he had faced what he would have liked to call his demons and made his final decision that would eventually change the fate of the world as he and everyone else knew it, the coming of dark had remained his foe even in light of all he had been through.

To the gumshoes that even possessed, his life was little more than its plaything – a toy to use and abuse as it saw fit. With its cruel and crooked fingers, it played with the edges of his mind like a scholar would an unusual tome. Tinkering, fiddling, and testing out whether the resistance he possessed would break after further torture… or reinforce as the will to remain sane grew stronger than the will to live.

In truth, Argon had thought that after such tribulations, rest would finally beckon when he saw the courage of a soul only afflicted by eternal sorrow. Yet as the undead stared blindly at the metallic walls of the passageway he came to know as a temporary sanctuary, he knew deep down that all that would visit him tonight was more nightmares.

He held no hate for anything in this world and feared nothing as an entity that instead injected terror into others; but still the worry of closing his eyes grew as his body weakened. It was unhealthy to force insomnia unto oneself, he knew that well. But how could he not when the thing he grew weary of the most was what would make itself known to him in the dangerous yet safe arms of the dream world? He had only ever allowed himself to fall into a cloudy oblivion when he was too weak to even breathe properly, and even then he had known that the horrors he had seen would haunt him in unconsciousness.

However, this time it was different. Argon knew that the incubi to follow him now was not that which he had seen in the beginning of his journey, but the ancient vessels of the damned formed by the machinations of his own mind. He had never feared anything after becoming undead, so why did he feel this intense hesitation to encounter himself in a state of weightlessness? Was it because of those slivers of memory that had revealed to him the things he had locked away eons ago? Or perhaps the persona he was loathe to admit belonged to himself, after he had done his best to be righteous even when everything around him had been deceitful?

He didn't know for sure, but what he did was that he couldn't refuse the sandman's tug any longer. Yes, there had been many events whereby he was far too tired to fall asleep – and tonight would be one of them – however, he knew that if he put off that which needed to be resolved for a wider period of time; it would only end up consuming him when he least expected it. And to be lost adrift in a sea of uncertainty, when it was most germane he remain focussed was not an advisable path to tread.

So, with a sigh too heavy for someone so lithe; and a tired frown too old to belong on features so young, Argon allowed his heterochromatic orbs to be shrouded in darkness by the eyelids of his that weighed more than lead… and felt the encroachment of bitterness to wrap him into a cocoon of boundless agony.

* * *

Whenever he had fallen into the murky surface of his mind, Argon had always imagined his mindscape to be as broken as the battlements of the Undead Burg – for that was how damaged he had felt. Even when he had been healed by the purifying fires the Keeper's maintained, he had cringed as his head oozed acid that dribbled into his eyes, blurring his vision and dulling his senses.

However, when he had opened the eyes of his subconscious, he was surprised to see an unpolluted white room in place of the expected black broken barracks of his imagination.

Argon looked around at the silvery surface he was surrounded by and almost felt out of place. There were just so much untainted elements here that he felt as if _he_ were the one intruding. With a glance at the floor he noted that he wasn't actually standing but floating above something and nothing simultaneously. It was a confusing, yet perfectly obvious concept to grasp.

Another thing that was odd yet common, was the assortment of what seemed like more than a thousand floating clocks in suspended in the air around him. They weren't anything special, just outlines of a clock face filled with numbers and the standard trio of hands coloured inky black. Once he had been curious enough to poke one before he was assaulted with one of his memories. The experience of remembering what it felt like to have his limbs crushed by gravity after he fell to this death had been both unpleasant and exhilarating. From what his mind inside his mind had concluded, these ticking – yet noiseless clocks – were all a sequence of events he had once created, either from when he was an undead in Lordran or as a human. He had never tested the theory and touched another clock, though… he had thought that doing so would only make his stay in a temporary coma more unbearable.

**_"So you've finally decided to come visit me."_ **

Argon turned his head to stare at himself, or what _would_ be considered himself if that ugly smile and abyssal aura weren't running off of the figure that stood a few feet away from him.

_"I imaged you would have worn away to nothing by now. I did defeat you, after all."_

The other version of him scoffed as it folded its legs into the lotus position, as if it were entering meditation.

**_"You may have killed my influence, but I am still here… until the end."_ **It winked at him and Argon ignored it to run his fingers along his blackened side. The other him snarled in response.

**_"Ignoring me won't get rid of me. I am still apart of you, as such, I cannot be destroyed completely."_ **

_"So basically, you're the remnant of the me that I refused to allow reign?" _it was directed as statement rather than a question to the twisted him. Again, the other him snarled back. Argon stared at it with a monotone expression. If tonight's nightmare was simply to listen to this waning side of him rant, it was an easy – albeit annoying – misery that he could wake up from without being scarred any further.

_"I'm guessing you're just going to sit there and wait until I'm weakened in the real world."_

**_"And what use would that be to me?"_ **

_"The chance to take over, of course. You've tried and succeeded before. Now that you have a taste for freedom, you'll most likely anticipate a second opportunity like that."_

The other him quirked an eyebrow. **_"And I suppose you believe that you can prevent such an opportunity from appearing?"_ **

Argon shook his head, making his darker counterpart frown. _"I can't promise to do that. You of all… people, should know that."_

**_"Interesting…"_ **the counterpart mouthed with a nod, **_"at least you're not stereotypical, but even if that chance comes, I will be unable to do anything."_ **

Argon copied the frown the other him displayed. _"Why not?"_

**_"Because I am only a remnant of what you dispersed. The only thing I am able to do is converse with you." _**Argon watched himself grin madly and sway from side to side. The sight was both intriguing and annoying, especially when the other him wore that unflattering look on its face.

_"That can't be right. If you don't have any power in my head why am I still itching to kill somebody?"_

**_"Oh, so you didn't trick yourself into believing that you were that happy-go-lucky fool in a mask?"_ **

_"I did that for both Havel and Priscilla's sakes."_

**_"A wasted effort."_ **

_"For you maybe."_

**_"Indeed, since you and I are… almost the same."_ **

Argon glared at himself. It was like looking in a disobedient mirror that showed his negative emotions.

**_"Why do you entertain such childish games? Let loose! Allow them to see who you and I know you really are and spare them the bothersome journey to the end of Lordran. At least then you can say you didn't endanger their lives because of your own iniquity."_ **

_"I know but I…" _Argon trailed off. The other him smirked in a way that look more like sour reaction after biting into a lemon.

**_"You don't want to do it because you actually think you're like that sun-loving fool with the feather."_ **Argon said nothing.

**_"Do you honestly think this false sense of joy and witticisms you perform without shutting up is the REAL you?" _**the other him watched as Argon put his head down, his long hair covering his dull eyes. If he had to look up, he would see himself shaking his head.

**_"Or perhaps it's the face that you don't actually WANT to be alone…" _**his counterpart rubbed its chin in faux thought before continuing.

**_"You don't want them to leave your side, do you?"_ **

_"No."_

**_"Then why do you continue to play hard to get? Are you a cheeky maiden in love?"_ **

Silence.

The counterpart sighed. **_"The reason you still crave destruction is simple. In truth, you ARE the very entity that was turned into a vessel of Stein's detestable will. You know this."_ **

_"But I don't even know who this Stein IS."_

**_"Then why do you fight like his prized soldier? Why do you speak his twisted gospel like the leader of his cult? Why are your impulses solely focussed on tearing the gods themselves into strips of bloody skin and bone?"_ **

Argon opened his mouth to speak but no words escaped. Suddenly it felt like the whiteness was too bright, the silent clocks were too loud, like the him in front of him was more than just his torturer but his executioner as well. It felt like the clean snow falling around them had changed into a rain of ashes.

**_"Face it, Argon. You are and will always be his arbiter, his famous last words and masterpiece. Even though you bit the hand that fed you, you are still his right arm, the extension of his malice. And you can never escape that."_ **

_"What do mean by that?" _Argon looked up, his eyes glittering like amethyst and amber amidst the white around them.

**_"Which part, the right arm or the fact that you're still adamant?"_ **

_"What do you mean I 'bit the hand that fed me'?"_

Argon watched as gave himself a sadistic grin. It shocked him how impish he could appear.

**_"You still don't know, or you pretend not to know…"_ **he hated that entertained tinge to his counterpart's voice. It was as if he was some grand spectacle to laugh at whilst sinking poisoned daggers into. He hated it so much it made him want to choke himself until even he himself died in return.

_"You know what, I don't care anymore. That's all in the past, who I was as a human is NOT who I am now."_

The counterpart opened his mouth in what seemed like shock before he cupped his monochrome chin. It appeared what Argon had said either stunned him to silence or made him realize something that would be detrimental to Argon in the next few moments. Personally, Argon knew it was the latter.

**_"You say that your dark past was all when you were human. You couldn't be more wrong."_ **

_"What are you talking about?" _the tension in Argon's chest grew unbearable. His mouth was dry despite being in a dream and he couldn't manage to breathe properly. The worst was just about to crash down into him. His fear told him as much but he couldn't stop it from happening. He desperately looked around the space he and his other side occupied for something, _anything_ to prevent his mind from shattering further.

**_"You also say that your grisly self is in the past… whilst that MIGHT have been true, it is now false. In all honesty, the you that you refuse to accept is still VERY much alive and palpable."_ **

_"What? How? I thought I removed him from my mind?!" _Argon shouted desperately.

**_"Oh, you did, but I'm afraid that was merely just fumes. The real thing is MUCH more terrifying, visceral and unstoppable."_ **

_"Then tell me where it is, tell me so that I can forget it! Why does he- it still exist and how can it live outside of me? Am I not the only host it can exist inside of?!"_

**_"Too many questions and not enough conviction. Now, I'm afraid we've run out of time. It's time for the nightmares to begin, yes?"_ **

As Argon tried to speak against himself, he heard the sound like a rush of water from all sides. The whiteness around him became so blinding he had to close his eyes and the quiet of the suspended clocks began to ring with ticking so loud his head burned with pain.

He screamed out as his sub-conscious burst with resonance as his other side cackled ominously. He noticed the clocks begin to move away from him until all but one remained, approaching him almost menacingly.

Argon knew what that was, strangely enough. He understood the torment of what he was about to incur and shivered as the clockface grew closer and _closer_. He attempted to run away but found his limbs locked into place by invisible bonds the temperature of ice so cold it burned his skin.

He could barely even blink in time before the inky black hands of said clock extended from the face to piece his bare skin. And once again, the carnival of horrors began anew as he was washed in another nightmare that was too real to be a dream, but real enough to be a long lost reverie…

* * *

**Sorry for not posting earlier, things haven't been the best. Hope you enjoyed this chapter.**

**The sad stuff aside, I know I haven't made Priscilla take centre-stage for a while now, it was all part of my plot. Next time, she and Argon will be the main focus so that they can deal with this whole 'us' thing… as well as Argon's case of 'who the bloody hell am I really?'**

**Oh, as for Ceaseless Discharge, I was having a bit of trouble deciding what his name should be. I've finally found one, but I would still like to ask all of you for help with it, if you don't mind.**

**Please leave a review, I'd love to hear your thoughts, likes and hates. Flames are always welcome, as I don't mind being corrected. Also, if there are any errors in this chapter, I will edit them as soon as I am able, thank you for mentioning them. I'll do my best not to say the 'Shinning City' and 'the god of Lighting' again. I know I make a lot of mistakes… but that was bloody embarrassing T-T**

**That being said, please have yourself a wonderful day or night and please stay safe. Mihairu7 (the 7 is silent) signing off.**


	22. Chapter 22

_The fresh breath of Spring brought with it the cheerful whistling of the birds, as they dived and darted in between the homely cottages and duchies dotted around the cosy village. Upon the smooth stone coloured a metallic grey, children skipped around one another in the orange glow of the sun's first light as merchants, maidens and men walked about the wharf beside the crystal-clear waters that meandered the community border. Although fish popped up from the still surface and many of the younger generation giggled with giddiness as the scales of those watery creature's reflected the warm light above, no one dared to insert a toe into those depths; for the cold chill of the previous season was stubborn to vacate that which was no longer its domain._

_On the opposite side of the town, where the forest brushed against the wooded gates like intimate fingers on a woman's thigh, sat a small but charming building comfortably nestled between the village and the greenery. Its walls were painted with virgin snow whilst the burgundy roof caught the bold glare of the sunshine above._

_Behind the open oaken doors was rolled a rich carpet of crimson, and beside it stood a formation of parallel pews splashed in deep brown lacquer. Candles filled the inside walls like miniature guards as the tall vertical windows allowed further light to illuminate the dark but comforting centre of the room. Against the back of the building rested a timber altar with a large pulpit upon its back. Said pulpit possessed no intricate carvings save for the simple brown cross etched onto the front._

_Sitting nearby the altar sat a woman dressed in a black robe with white trimming, a small rosary around her neck – signifying her duty to the cause she supported. She was bent over, elbows pressing against her knees, hands clasped and eyes shut as her mouth whispered words not even the wind could hear. Her thick hair cascaded over her back like a dark waterfall and two solitary bangs framed her oval face. She continued in her mimed words before her long lashes exposed her deep amber eyes._

_With a content smile, she rose to her feet and turned to see a small figure standing on the red carpet, legs frozen in surprise from taking the final step toward her. The woman blinked. She hadn't heard anyone enter through the church doors at all. Although the town was safer than a King's castle, her senses always did their best to lookout for any presences that were near whilst she was preoccupied. That was why it was odd that she didn't pick up on the small footsteps of a boy younger than ten that stood before her now._

_Even so, she thought it might be a good idea to say something to the him before he scurried away in fear after being detected_

_"Why, hello my child." She said in a soft tone, her smile growing in greeting as she crouched down to his level._

_The boy merely stared back at her, although he allowed his foot to finally find the floor._

_"What brings you to the Church today? Are you hungry?"_

_The boy shook his head. It was a bit difficult to see since the glare from the sun shone against his back, slightly blinding. She had had her eyes closed for quite some time so they hadn't a chance to adjust to the incoming light._

_From what she could see, they boy was wearing very shoddy clothing – almost accustomed to rags if they were torn anymore. His black hair was shaggy and wild, and from the smell she could guess that he probably needed a bath soon. After straining her sight, she discovered more prominent details, like the red stains on his chin and neck, as well as the shape of his small nose. His lips were also cracked, and the most amount of skin she could see on him was either chaffed or riddled with old scars._

_Whatever had happened to this boy or who had done these things to him was a mystery to her. What mattered, however, was that his wellbeing was sought before her own curiosity. It would also be cautious to mind how she approached the him, he seemed to scare quite easily whenever she bordered around his personal space._

_"Are you thirsty then?" the woman asked. She received another shake of the head._

_His hair whipped around like the tail of a steed, granting her a quick glimpse of his eyes, although it was too fast for her identify what the colour was._

_Before she could ask another question with regard to her visitor, she saw the little boy raise a thin, nail-less finger towards the altar behind her. She turned to find him staring at the podium._

_"What does it mean?" his voice was firmer than his ability to stand straight without glancing around cagily._

_"The altar?"_

_He shook his head, dark tresses flying around._

_"The cross," the priestess' face softened. It wasn't everyday a young boy would wander into the church to ask about the teachings of her religion. In fact, if she remembered correctly, the only other people curious enough to come through the building's doors had been an elderly couple seeking shelter from heavy rain during a typhoon. In terms of how many people even accompanied her during worship was numbered less than forty, but she was content – it was a blessing that she possessed even that much in her fellowship._

_Now was a time for many theocracies of varying beliefs to come out of the woodwork. With the majority of the world either running towards beings under the title of 'Allfather', 'Goddess of Fertility' and the 'Lord of Sunlight' barely anyone knew of her age-old faith. That being said, it was still both refreshing and a surprise when one so young came to her sanctuary seeking enlightenment._

_"It means that He is always with us, no matter what."_

_"Who is?" the child asked._

_"Why, God, of course."_

_She watched him appraise the carving again before looking at the pews and candles. "But… there's no statue." He commented, pouting in thought as to why that is. The robed woman smiled; such childish perplexity made her heart ooze with warmth._

_"We don't keep statues in the church, child." She answered and watched him huff. He looked more confused than satisfied by that answer._

_"Then how do you know what god looks like?"_

_"That's a good question. Its simply because we don't know what He looks like." She supressed a giggle when the boy scratched his head, deep in thought of something that sounded so unusual to his little ears. Eventually, he gave up on thinking and turned back to face the dark-haired woman._

_"I don't get it." He said with a small shrug._

_She smiled at him again before motioning for him to come closer, which he did – reluctance vanished as his curious mind egged him on to discover more._

_"We don't need to know what God looks like." She poked his chest softly and was surprised to feel the outline of his ribs instead of normal fat. Either way, she continued with her explanation. "Because God is right here."_

_The boy looked at down at her finger. "You can't see what your own heart looks like, now can you?"_

_He shook his head._

_"It's the same with God. There's no need to go looking for Him when he's already with you."_

_She retracted her finger and watched as the boy processed her words, exchanging hair-shrouded glances between the cross and his chest. It seemed he was beginning to understand her words better. Her mission had been accomplished._

_"Is God really in here?" the boy asked after quite some time of silence, holding a pale, rough hand above his heart._

_"Of course he is." She replied. "He's always there. Speaking, listening, and protecting us."_

_"He… protects us?"_

_The woman nodded kindly. "From anything that brings us harm."_

_"Then why," she heard his voice quiver. "Why does it still hurt so much?"_

_A small tear appeared past his blanket of hair before his soft sobs wracked his tiny body. The priestess's face crumpled in sorrow at the weight of those words. The town she lived in might have been one of peace, but she would be a fool to assume that just because there was no cause for war, there was no cause for sinful acts either._

_With a gentle tug, she pulled the boy close to herself, wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace. He seemed to stiffen against her, obviously not used to the contact – if he had even ever received this simple form of interacting from whoever he lived with in the first place – but after it was clear the robed woman held no ill intent towards him; she felt his smaller limbs loosely hug her neck as he buried his face deeper into her warmth._

_She didn't allow him to break away from her as he cried freely. The sour scent he gave off became more apparent to her, and she knew her clothing would most likely be stained from the muck he carried but she ignored such trivial things. When in her line of work, these stains and unclearable scents were the battle scars of the small victories she won, so think like some snobbish noble she would not._

_"I know that it may feel like too much to bear right now," she spoke as she gently stroked his raven hair. "but one day all this suffering will be worth it."_

_The priestess felt him shuffle in her grip, his head lifting from the crook of her neck. "But why do I have to feel more pain?"_

_"Not everything we learn is from books, my child. Some lessons are only taught through pain and bondage."_

_"I don't want more pain," he sniffed bitterly. "I just want it to stop."_

_"It will. I promise you, it will." She cooed in his ear and he relaxed once more, hugging her as tight as he could. The action made her crease her brow. Who had this boy been raised by to fear such amorphous suggestions of an unknown torturer? And what was this torturer doing to him that made him so afraid to even stare at his own shadow?_

_"One day God will see your strength, and he'll give you the desires of your heart."_

_"H-He will?"_

_"Yes," She said softly. "What is it you want most, my child?"_

_The boy looked up at her, his hair falling away from his eyes to reveal glowing amber pools. The priestess' mouth dropped open in shock as she saw eyes parallel to her own shining irises._

_"A friend." Her train of thought broke as he finally spoke. He stared at her intently with a what certainty he could muster. "I want a f-friend."_

_She smiled warmly, even when the cogs in her head were turning fiercely at the discovery she had made. Those cogs had sped up when he had then asked her a question._

_"W-Will you be my friend?"_

_She parted the few locks of hair covering his face and cupped his small, scarred cheeks. "Of course I will."_

_His smile was the first normal thing she had seen about him, and it broke her heart that such a child was thrown into the evils of this world._

_"Then, if we are friends, you should know my name." she said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster in her sombre mood. His eyes seemed to light up at the prospect of having something reciprocated back to him as she continued._

_"I am known by this town as Priestess Eliana, but you can just call me Eli."_

_The young boy nodded furiously, a wide smile on his face that contrasted against the cruel scars and scabs on his pale skin. Once again, her heart felt as if it was being squeezed by ghostly hands. That smile of his was just so familiar to her, that skin tone a shattering reverie, and those eyes the splitting image of her own. Although she had her doubts, there was but once more question to ask him so that at least her fears could be settled._

_"Tell me child, what is your name?"_

_A small flicker of sadness crossed his features but it vanished just as soon as it occurred and the boy stared up at her innocently before responding. "I don't have a name."_

_"Oh, I see," Eliana replied, tears slowly making their way down her own pale cheeks. She would have been set at ease if she were crying for the boy's predicament, but unfortunately for her, it was her predicament she wept for._

_In all honesty, she hadn't thought to see him ever again. Even though she had cried until sleep had taken her for many nights, and the other sisters of the church had comforted her with scriptures that calmed the mind, she had bitterly made peace with the fact that her own spawn was pulled from her clutches, never to see her loving face a second time. It was both heart-breaking sight and a blessing to note that after nine long years, she had the chance to glance upon his pale, cut face. How could she have not recognised him? After all, he had inherited her good looks._

_"That… that isn't a problem then." She sniffed and wiped the tears from her eyes. "We are in God's house. Surely, it was by His decree that you come here today… so that you may be given the name you deserve."_

_The boy beamed as Eliana stood and held out her hand for him to take. She would be damned if she allowed him to be dragged back to whatever hell he had climbed out of without at least receiving the one thing that was his right as a living being. And even if those that had taken him were to come to this hallowed place, she would risk everything she had to ensure he was not taken from her for a second time. She would not allow the gift God had placed in her lap to go to waste._

_Eliana turned back to face her cheerful child. He reminded her somewhat of the Lord she worshipped every morning and afternoon. Always joyous, kind even when going through turmoil, and always attentive to others. She smiled at him with all the love she could as the thought hit her. She had found the perfect name._

_But just as she was about to open her mouth to speak, they heard the loud voice of someone that made her skin crawl._

_"Ah… so **this** is where you've been hiding."_

_The boy stiffened to a plank as the face of Lord Stein entered his vision, royal guards of his choosing flanking him on either side. Eliana pulled the boy behind her and splayed her hands out protectively._

_"You," she hissed and tensed as two guards cornered her and the boy against the altars podium, spears raised in level with her pale throat, daring her to make a move to stop them from touching the shaking child behind her._

_"Yes, **me**. And I believe the words you were searching for was **Lord** **Stein**." The large man chuckled darkly before nodding towards his men._

_At once, they grabbed her arm and threw her to one side, her body stumbling into one of the nearby pews whilst another guard grabbed the terrified boy and shoved him towards Stein._

_"I would thank you for keeping my property safe and sound, but I fear your words of **heresy **might have corrupted the boy."_

_"Property?" she gawked. "Is that the way to refer to child that doesn't know any better?"_

_"He knew not to **run** from me. Now that he **did,** he requires more reconditioning. Not that it's any of your concern what I do with my possessions."_

_Eliana pushed herself off from the pew and stepped forward, shrugging off the hand one of the guards placed on her shoulder in warning._

_"I won't let you take him. Just looking at his scared face I can see you've done to him what you've done to the other poor orphans you've taken under your black wing."_

_Stein sucked in a long breath, feigning surprise although the sadistic glint in his eye showed he was more than happy with the events that had just played out._

_"And to think I was going to let you go with a **gentle** slap on the wrists." He clicked his tongue and shook his head in mock disappointment as his massive hand clasped onto the boy's shoulder._

_"But now that you know so much, my men with have to… **dispose** of you." He said softly despite his gruff voice and began to drag the shivering boy away from her. The look of unbridled fear in his eyes showed that even if she tried to call out to him, he would be unable to hear. Such was the effect of a monster like Stein._

_"Farewell then." The large man waved behind him as he and the child she had only been reunited with for but a few moments slowly disappeared into the bright sunlight outside._

_Eliana fell to her knees as one of the guardsmen roughly pushed her, a lustful smile on his and his comrades faces as they neared. The priestess merely raised up a hand toward the retreating form of the child she loved, tears flowing freely down her face as she whispered her final words he would never get the chance to hear again._

_"I'm sorry Mikel…my son."_

* * *

Argon awoke with a start, lurching forward from against the wall as his eyes stared blindly at the space before him, breathing laboured. That dream had been too real to credit as some nightmare conjured by his other self. What was more worrying was that he recalled those brightly lit streets, the sounds of that village, and more importantly, the face of that priestess.

Nevertheless, he refused to believe such a bittersweet dream was anything more than just that, a dream. It had been eons since he was human, he knew that much; so he wouldn't assume that simple anecdotes bursting from the undead parts of his mind were works of non-fiction just yet, they couldn't be if he were still attempting to grapple with himself in a battle of wits.

"Argon, thank goodness you're awake." The undead turned his head towards the voice and saw Priscilla staring at him, a mere few inches away from his shirtless body. He saw her cheeks rise in colour as he continued to burn his unsteady gaze into her before she remembered the reason for her close proximity to him. Her expression changed from embarrassment to urgency.

"It's about Sir Havel, he's departed."

"The old geyser croaked in his sleep? I thought he was undead?"

The crossbreed shook her head so fast her bangs swatted his monochrome cheeks. "No Argon, he has left our company completely." She pointed towards the lift mechanism to the left of them, a deep frown on her otherwise perfect face.

"I fear he aims to face my father on his own."

Argon's eyes narrowed in alarm as she shot up to his feet, fitting his mask back on a second after as he strode towards the crank on the right-hand side of the lift, pulling it down with one arm.

"That idiot! Does he realize what awaits us all inside that castle?" he yelled out in frustration as the goddess joined his side, waiting for the platform to reach the floor they were on.

"I understand that his reason for staying alive was his hate for Seath but he can't seriously be this pig-headed."

Priscilla coughed into the sleeve of her bodice.

_'This coming from the man that attacked uncle Gwyndolin due to maddened ideals.'_

From what little shew knew about his and her uncle's battle, Argon had briefly mentioned his mind being "eclipsed by thoughts more sinister than his previous ones". Even if the explanation had been a struggle to re-align his perception, his statement was still quite hypocritical.

The platform creaked and clinked against the cogs that spun slowly before resting against the wooden frame with a soft hiss. Argon wasted no time for the safety doors to open and vaulted over them instead, impatient to reach their third-party member and stop him in his stony tracks before he had the opportunity to do something foolish.

He tapped his boot against the lacquered floor as Priscilla joined him before his yanked the second crack down with a healthy amount of force. The crossbreed feared the lever would break when it clanged against the metal around it but was relieved when the cogs began to turn once again, rotating more rapidly as if sensing the pairs urgency to reach their armoured friend.

* * *

The growl of another crystal hollow sounded within the labyrinth-like corridors of the Dukes Archives before it was silenced by the crash of Havel's Dragontooth. He watched with a curled lip as the annoying blue foe shattered into multiple shards of crystal, its caduceus shield clattering loudly against the smooth marble floors.

This raised the number of ugly hunched and mutated creatures he had broken to seventy-four, and still he wondered how they were still brave – or just stupid – enough to continue rushing him. Yes, he had bent and twisted the limbs of about three of that blind brute's magic casters but if one more measly soul arrow bounced off his shield, he swore he would be pissed off. In fact, scratch that – he was already pissed off.

His soul had been restless the night prior. Filled with thoughts, imagery, situations and scenarios of him reaching that traitorous paledrake only to find him already gone, flown away on flightless wings like the coward he was. Havel had spent that entire night expecting, anticipating his encounter with the beast that had stolen his honour and branded him a foe to Gwyn. Those thoughts had made him act hastily. In an instant, he had felt his feet rushing against white floors, his shield raised blocking incoming projectiles and his Dragontooth his only ally as he slammed and smashed his way through hordes of monstrosities made from the very earth itself.

But upon seeing those tall, word-garbling fiends with golden tridents and six pairs of eyes, his blood had royally boiled in his veins. _Those_ twisted scholars of greed and envy were part of his quarrel. They had been the reason he and his small cluster of Silver Knights had found reason to doubt the intentions of Anor Londo's only Duke. Even if he and his knights hadn't been human at the time, they had still held rage in their chests at the sight of those poorly clothed, lifeless, and beaten maidens, shackled to one another like prisoners and heading toward the Duke's study via the underground passageways.

Back then, Havel had been a man to ask questions and then strike – as was his duty to be more open-minded as the Archbishop of Lordran. Now, however, after the consequences of his actions had taken their toll, he cursed himself for being so naïve. Damn the example the church expected him to set, he should have slaughtered those brainless followers of a dragon he originally held reservations for the moment he saw them. Perhaps then, he wouldn't have gone to bed that night with a heavy heart. Perhaps then, the news that a few of a few of Gwynevere's hand servants had went missing wouldn't have reached his ears the next morning. Perhaps then, his manhunt for them wouldn't have ended up in the sewers of that swine's castle, with the maimed, mutated and broken bodies of six once pure and beautiful women.

Now that everyone had left Lordran altogether, he could rest assured that no other discoveries would pass by his sight; however, if the masked and bipolar fool Priscilla followed failed in his mission to exterminate that white gecko, what would become of her? Could he sleep or even breathe normally ever again if he were to let someone who had saved him become mere ingredients for the likes of a power-hungry beast like Seath?

_No._ He could not. That was why he had left his comrades behind, that was why he allowed his deep-seated hatred and bloodlust overcome his already shattered mind and soul, obliterating anything and everything that moved within his line of sight. Because he would not permit the Everlasting Dragon to get away for his crimes. He would do everything in his power to ensure he avenged those souls he failed to save all those centuries ago.

So, when he thought of a reason for why he had decided to head for the paledrake on his lonesome, it was for more than just restoring his honour; but for the lives he couldn't save that day and the lives he had the potential _to_ save _today_. This time, he promised, Seath _would_ be found and slain. If not by his hand, then certainly by the ones who followed closely on his tail.

Havel stopped slowed his pace when he came across a chest towards the end of the walkway he stood on. This Archive was nearly as vast as Gwynevere was well endowed, and he didn't know which floor he had arrived at after the many he had already cleared. Nevertheless, if this passageway he was in lead towards Seath's chamber, then he would need to leave some trace that he was here so that Argon and Priscilla could be warned in advance.

Unfortunately, he didn't have any soap stones with him to leave a message. That being said, there were other ways of proving he was here.

Walking up to the chest, Havel placed his shield on his back and placed his free hand on his hip. Perhaps an opened chest would alert the duo that he had passed by? No, anyone could open a chest in this place, those brainless forms of crystal included. He would need to make it more pronounced.

Yet, his curiosity as to what was inside the chest before him was of greater importance than his need to leave a marker. Wait, a marker… maybe he could leave behind a prism stone? No, he couldn't, he didn't see a need to stock up on those useless balls of light. It was a shame, but now he really wished he had such needless trinkets like that kleptomaniac**1** in a white mask.

With a sigh, Havel lifted a boot to open the chest like he had done in the castle of Anor Londo. Unfortunately, he had overestimated the power of his kick at the last minute, incidentally, booting the poor chest against the far wall until it formed a rectangular crater.

Dust, plaster, and rubble dropped from the point of impact as the ex-Bishop stared at it with a blank face.

"Oops," he grumbled, when the sound of pained groans filled his ears. He watched as a pair of gangly grey arms and legs grew from the sides of and underneath the chest before standing, the latch flipping open to spill out a cavern of sharp, ugly teeth.

Havel froze on the spot. He had not expected _those _monstrosities to be lurking inside Seath's manor. He had gained a tiny phobia for opening chests with his hands after watching one of the Mimics try to eat Argon whole. Now one of those beasts were 'staring' at him angrily after being rudely awoken. The undead didn't know whether to scream at his terrible luck or glare the Mimic down for souring his mood further.

As the freaky thing giggled ominously whilst it skipped toward him, Havel chose the third option and watched with rapt attention as the chest, which served as the thing's 'head', was crushed to splinters under the force of his Dragontooth. Its limbs bent at awkward angles like a smooshed spider before Havel felt the rush of souls and a sliver of humanity enter his body.

With a small sniff and after re-centring his Dragontooth on his shoulder, Havel nodded with a satisfied look behind his helm.

"That'll do." He said and walked off with a little spring in his step. Killing nightmarish monsters in oddly amusing ways was mildly therapeutic.

* * *

One of the first things to greet Argon and Priscilla's cautious eyes, respectively, had been the abundance of oddly shaped and crafted instruments and stands carved from more lacquered wood and shining metal. It had seemed that whatever the paledrake had been doing whilst cooped up in his castle had to do with vast stores of research and practical experimentation – after all, there was a reason why people from Vinheim to Catarina had sung songs about the 'Duke's Archives' with such wonder on their faces.

Besides being flanked by an armada of equipment; however, the pair had also figured out that there wouldn't much fighting to do, judging by shattered remains of what had looked like crystal in humanoid form. From what the undead had gleaned from the traces of discarded crystal swords and obliterated shelving along with the large, dirty boot prints against the clean marble, it was clear to him that their ex-Archbishop had been in quite a hurry – and it wasn't because he hadn't wanted them to catch up. Priscilla had also reported her findings that from what she could smell in the abnormally clean study, Havel's sandy musk lingered near the right wing on the stairway before them.

Whilst it was a relief to know that the armoured giant had definitely passed by, it was quite annoying for the Chosen Undead to see such a beautifully made hall messed with the corpses of shattered blue minerals and splintered objects he suspected to belong to some sort of astrology – he had learned quite a lot from Logan whilst on his way out of Sen's Fortress.

"We should make haste. Sir Havel couldn't have gone very far if every level of the castle was as heavily guarded as this one." Priscilla mused, pointing to the discarded weapon of a Channeler.

"I doubt his armour would have helped in terms of speed anyways," Argon replied as he picked up the tall trident. He had always wondered why those eyesores that barely spoke any language besides babbling carried these around. They had been followers of Seath, which meant they were all sorcerers in training, but to use a mythical sea creatures' weapon as a catalyst was unheard of. Moreover, what was the deal with those wired dances they did whenever one had spotted him? It was freaking stupid no matter what people said to dissuade his opinion.

A curious look crossed over his face as he contemplated imitating that tribal dance and miming the very same gobbledygook**2 **when his better judgement decided against it. He may have been half crazed but he was by no means an idiot. He wouldn't be caught dead reiterating such a foolish charade in front of Priscilla, even if she _would_ find it amusing – who was he kidding, she would find it hilarious.

That being said, as much as Argon did feel the need to rescue his idiotic comrade, there was still a side mission nudging him almost to the extreme with infuriating little pokes and prods. It annoyed him so much that he had to sigh out deeply in order to calm his nerves from the sensory overload he was receiving.

The goddess nearby seemed to notice his slight unease as he turned back to him in mild worry. "Is everything alright?"

"Of course," he reassured her, turning away from that soft look of hers. For some reason he just couldn't find it in him to look at her normally, the events from less than forty-eight hours ago still fresh in his head, replaying itself over and over until he was forced to get the hidden moral of the story.

"I'm just having a bit of trouble focusing."

"What is it that's bothering you?" she came closer to him and he caught her scent, even from behind his mask. He couldn't really explain it clearly, since his unhinged experience with Gwyndolin his body had undergone a drastic change.

He was still physically the same, the only exception being his abyssal right side; however, everything he had originally felt inside and around him had shifted significantly enough that it was almost completely difficult to bind his mind to one thing at a time.

His sight was the first to take on this change. Ignoring his ability to witness previously invisible aura's, it felt as if his sight had been reworked, tuned in some manner whereby he could now make out the minute details on a leaf from more than a sentinel's leap away.

The next sign was his movements. He was still agile as before, his time spending his souls on enhancing his endurance and dexterity still at its all time high; however, now it was as if time had slowed when he ran or fought, or as if he was moving faster than time itself to follow at certain points. He knew his fighting-style had changed as a result of his oldest memories surfacing, so he wondered if this sudden surge of deft skill was also due to that.

Last, by not least, Argon had felt the shift in every sense he possessed, from sight to touch. He honestly felt like some beast enraged, senses spread out like some killing intent to petrify his prey and devour it whole. Whilst the comparison was mildly intriguing, the actual feeling was beginning to mess with his mind from the new influx of information he was forced to process at the regular rate.

Under normal circumstances, he would have blamed it all on the bonfires invigorating his body as he fed it his accumulation of souls. Yet even he knew that the lifeline for all undead couldn't boost one's person into hyperdrive by simply augmenting their body to the max with souls. Even the pyromancy Power Within was nothing compared to this intense high he couldn't get down from. But what really scared the undead was that the more he investigated this strange phenomenon, the more he was beginning to like what it offered and adapt to it quicker. A thought had once occurred to him whilst he was staring off into space the previous night before his eyes had closed. Thoughts that pondered whether this new strength had arrived was due to the reinstatement of his previous existence. And if that was so, was it possible that the him he refused to go back to had originally possessed these honed reflexes, these inhuman traits? For the sake of focussing on what was right in front of him, Argon had chosen not to know the answer to that question. He feared it would make him lose control if he allowed his darker thoughts to brew once again.

"Can you smell that?" he asked her suddenly, walking around the room bisected by newly made bookshelves and a grand stairway. "I smell something… something divine."

"Divine?" Priscilla repeated.

"Divine." Argon nodded. "I don't know what it is but the thickness of it makes my knees quiver."

"Be careful, such things can be lures to trap and ambush us." Priscilla scolded and drew her scythe. "Remember, the castle guards know we're here. They'll do anything to either kill us or capture us."

Argon tilted his head at her as she climbed the staircase, avoiding the broken body of another one of the azure creatures Havel had already dealt with. She had been on edge from the time they had all left her uncle, he knew, but something else was amiss with her now that they were in her father's house.

Assuming that she was anxious to return to a place she had been shunned and tortured in was an obvious guess, but she would have been traumatised rather than wary. A further exhibit of proof from her fluffy tail explained her precise unease as she slowly rotated her gaze around the room, glittering emerald eyes searching for _something_.

"What's bothering you?" he decide to ask rather than assume to get it. Doing the latter and thinking her understood her was what had made him grew apart from her in the first place… he didn't want a repeat of that if he could help it.

"I used to remember this place like the back of my hand." Her face displayed nostalgia yet her tail wrung itself in nervousness. "There were places here that I had spent my childhood hiding in, observing, and choosing to remain until Seath's subordinates needed to extract more of my scales. But now… everything has changed." He watched her trace a finger against the carved wood of the railing, continuing her ascent until she reached the edge.

"I always thought change was a good thing." The undead said, reaching her side silently and staring up at the expansive walls around them, all filled to the max with volumes of the Dragon's work. They smelt similar to the alluring aroma calling to him, but not quite the same. He didn't know how to put it more simply than these books around them just smelt… new.

His companion's soft laugh brought him out of his haze and he faced her anxiety once more.

"Change regarding this place isn't a good thing." A piece of the puzzle slotted into Argon's mind as he replied.

"When you mean everything has changed…"

"The architecture of old has long been removed. The places I once knew also lost with reconstruction."

The undead snapped his fingers. "Which means our plan to follow the way to Seath via your memory has been foiled."

Priscilla nodded glumly. "Unfortunately, we will have rush into things completely blind."

Argon huffed and rolled his shoulders. Things were never that easy, their most current experiences with Blighttown and Anor Londo the perfect examples.

Not possessing a guide anymore made things for the two of them mightily difficult. They would be as unknowing as Havel, meaning they wouldn't be able to pass by undetected by the other guards and monsters prowling the seemingly endless Archive crafted by Seath. Although, when Argon really thought about it, they had never really ventured into any enemy territory with a plan, so what was the need to bother now?

_Perhaps the fact that we're inside the domain of a possessor of one of the four Lord Soul's?_

Argon grinned at the thought. Even in the most perilous journey, they still approached it like it would be a dance in a field of daisies. How lopsided were they as a trio? Then again, it was better to dance in a field of daisies rather than be the ones to be pushing _up_ daisies.

"If I remember correctly, Seath's also blind, yeah?"

The crossbreed nodded before understanding his point and smiling. The undead enjoyed staring at that bright look on her face. It was leagues better than that downcast expression that reminded him how screwed he really was when all four of these souls had finally been collected.

If he recalled correctly – which he most certainly did – although he had told fem-boy his plans to enact a third solution to saving the world, had he actually thought of one yet? The answer was obviously no, of course. Why, he had been too busy battling the sea of nightmares his mind had conjured every night as he slept like some heroic king of the seas! Yes, a _very_ heroic king of the sea. A very… man… manly? … king of the sea?

Argon sighed out as he and his companion climbed up the right wing's staircase, diverting into the passage whereby Havel's scent lingered. He had to start thinking of a way to save the world without killing himself in the process, and he needed to do it before anyone thought he had been slacking off.

_Maybe I can ask Cresty for help? He doesn't give a damn but maybe he'll be able to find a way to bypass the burning of my soul better than I can?_

The undead shook his head. That was a stupid idea for a lot of reasons, the main ones being that the crestfallen knight either wouldn't give him the time of day or he just wouldn't have an answer. And besides Argon's reluctance to admit he had dug a hole he didn't know how to fill; he couldn't allow himself to take shortcuts this time around – not that he had ever taken them in the past. One hastily made decision and he could end up killing every other being in the world besides himself and the many Firekeeper's in Lordran. It would have been all for nothing if the world was safe from the Abyss but no one was around to enjoy the fruits of his labour. No, he needed to find his own solution, and fast. Before they reached Seath's chamber, wherever it was.

As Argon thought about his burdens, he caught another whiff of the scent he had been attracted to before and stopped dead in his tracks.

Priscilla turned to him, noticing the absence of her friend only to see his masked face staring down a different passageway from behind his mask. She frowned as his feet changed course and decided to follow him. He had been reacting strangely ever since they had started tracking their armoured friend, and this mention of a scent not even her draconic senses could pick up on was worrying.

She knew that the more time they spent wasting time, the faster Havel's scent would disappear, but if something was potent enough to gain Argon's attention to such a degree, it would be worth investigating. Maybe it could give them a lead as to how best to arrive at her father's private chamber.

The pair continued walking through the tube-like corridor. The undead next to her seemed lost in mind as he allowed his nose to lead them, whilst she was on guard, body tense. They had not stumbled across another living guard of the Archive and it was beginning to worry her. What's more, the place sounded awfully quite for the grand library of Anor Londo. Even though there were no scholars and visitors entering the white and pale blue building like when she was a child, it was odd that there were none of her father's minions absently pacing about, or the failed experiments he had allowed to roam his halls under the title of his 'pets'.

Soon, they emerged into a large room similar to the one they had previously been in. The style was the same, and it was almost identical if you forgot to note that the previous room held the corpses of more than a few of the Dragon's servants. It was only after they had reached the foot of the same type of stairway that Argon had found his voice again – as well as his head.

"Ahhh!" he moaned out as he paced around the bookshelves set parallel to a long table meant for studying. "We've finally _found_ it."

The crossbreed watched him as he flew to and fro, inhaling deeply and gasping in delight like some toddler in a bakery. The sight would have been amusing were it not for the direness of their situation. Priscilla chose that moment to scout around for any sign of foes. When she found none, she rested her scythe against her spine and approached the lines of bookshelves with a critical eye.

She smelt old wood and thick musk from pages that were without a doubt, extremely old. The clean room didn't possess the same stench of disinfecting agents that she had remembered when she was younger but other than those qualities, there was nothing really that impressive except the multitude of written, leather bound tomes packed and overloaded around the tall walls and passageways above them. She had remembered her days spent peering up at the once taller shelves, never being able to read the books they had held since her father had forbid her from touching the works he had carefully crafted from years of research. Occasionally, before her exile, she had disobeyed his orders and grabbed one of those very same books of his so that her curiosity could be sated. Although he had spent much of his time in various rooms and talking to his subordinates on certain floors, he couldn't always keep a watchful eye on her; giving her the freedom to do as she pleased – she _was_ only a child back then after all.

However, from what she retained about those days, she had only remembered glossing over mountains of boring black ink without any pictures or colour to keep her attention. Those had been simpler days. Days whereby the only thing she had feared were the times Seath would require more of her scales, and more of her happiness.

She blinked as she observed the layout of the room. The ground floor itself was overflowing with books. Some piled in various corners of the room in heaps, others stacked in a neat tower next to the many chairs decorating the gaps the long table offered. Argon stood in the centre of it all, giggling like some demented man with an obsession – which might not have been too far from the truth. What worried her was that he seemed too excited to be here, as if this space had cast a spell upon him, preventing him from focusing on anything besides what he saw before him.

She allowed her senses to fan out, coating the area within a few metres of her with her magic. She couldn't do much besides utilise the elements of a snowstorm but she was able to detect incantations and illusions quite well, as was her specialty next to her uncle.

However, she found nothing. Not a trace of a spell or charm. Even when Argon had crossed into her radar, she had felt nothing from him except the cold chill of the Abyss against his skin. With another frown marring her features, she called to her friend, wanting to figure out why he was so ecstatic all of a sudden.

"You mean you still don't smell it?" he exclaimed in shock, skidding to a stop before prancing up to a nearby shelf.

"Can you not smell it? The aged paper of an era passed, the leather made from an animal too fat to cut down with ordinary blades and the richness of ink only formed by tinkering with a hydra's venom?" he picked out a thick book with the imprinted letters already faded on the spine and cover.

"Take another deep breath at all this knowledge and history collecting dust. This bibliosmia**3 **is heady, stronger than the brew of the strongest ale and more potent than the toxins of Blighttown. Oh, what a delight it is to _finally_ come upon a vault of resources so magnificent after months stabbing hobo's without clothing and reading poorly inscribed messages left via other undead with the help of soap stones." He breathed.

Priscilla gave the man a blank stare as a large drop of sweat fell down the side of her face. He had reacted like a drunken hound because he had the opportunity to read _books_ again?

She wasn't one to judge, and she wouldn't since her love for the written works of many faceless beings was also a pleasure she shared with the Chosen Undead. Back in Aramis, she had searched and surprisingly found a small library of books, scrolls and journals in the annex which she had read nearly three-hundred times over – and she wasn't exaggerating when she said that.

However, whilst she was also joyous to be in the presence of millions of volumes of said literature and annals, she found it more pertinent that the _Chosen Undead_ do the _job_ he was supposed to do _instead_ of allowing the world to end because he wanted to immerse himself in a few _novels_. And besides that fact…

"But… aren't you also shirtless?" she asked, and he looked down at his black and white torso.

"Yes…" he said with a sober tone. "But I am by no means poor."

Priscilla palmed her face in exasperation. "Argon…"

"Sure, I may be homeless since nowhere in Lordran is inhabitable but I'm still not an inch close to those hollowed, dirty and mindless drones. Why, if we were to compare hobo's…"

The crossbreed groaned as she tuned his voice out. He could be so charming when he wanted to be; the undead of her dreams if that even sounded right. Yet now, he did the exact opposite of about everything she liked about him. Even so, she couldn't help but think but one thing as he continued to rant about the difference between armoured and loin-clothed undead: she had fallen in love with a _child_.

"Anyway," he cleared his throat. "fear not for the safety of our stone-headed brute of a friend. He'll be fine just so long as he doesn't do anything stupid… which is exactly what he'll do since he's still and airhead with more brawn than brain. Even so, we'll head out for him once I've briefly discovered the contents of this wonderful tome of knowledge."

Priscilla watched him open the heavy book with eager hands, his mouth most likely dripping with drool from the anticipation, she imagined but allowed it, nonetheless. While they were here, she could search for a map detailing the path to her father – then at least they could make some _progress_.

However, as soon as she took a step forward, she heard Argon scream in agony, making her tail stiffen as she drew her scythe and dropped into a combat stance.

"OH! THE HORROR!" he screamed and chucked the book against the floor quickly. Priscilla frowned at his idiotic display, wondering what had happened now.

"AHHH! My poor eyyyeeeeesssss!" he pointed an accusing finger at the innocent book and snarled at it. "What a tale of Boys' Love is doing on the shelves of a brilliant – if not insane – dragon are beyond me. I should torch this monstrosity to a crisp." He whispered darkly and panted.

"Boys'… Love?" the crossbreed asked and bent down to pick the discarded book up.

"DON'T TOUCH THAT SMUT!"

She jerked upright in shock at his loud and screeching tone, her wide-eyed stare locked onto his mask as he sighed out in relief before sitting down in a chair.

"Thank whatever god besides fem-boy is still alive. Another soul saved from damnation."

Her shoulders dropped at the comment. He was either too childish or too mature when the opportunity came. Yet, despite all that she was still going to hold on to the warm feeling in her chest when he was around, wasn't she? Priscilla sighed and shook her head in disappointment. If Argon was an idiot then she was an even bigger fool.

"How about we get out of here? I think I've seen enough to last another lifetime." Argon said with a shrug of his shoulders. Priscilla nodded at him wearily, she was exhausted from his fluctuating personalities.

Just then, she caught the distant sound of footsteps followed by the faint scent of earth- no, it was more like rock. Was it Sir Havel? No, there was more than one pair of feet moving, and it seemed like it was approaching in their direction. Her green eyes widened as she spun on her heel and prepared herself for a potential battle if they didn't manage to run in time.

"Argon, we have to leave. Now."

The undead caught her meaning and shot to his feet, racing up the left stairway next to her as they saw the dark blue body of a crystal golem stomp into view.

"How the heck did they find us?" Priscilla gave him a deadpan stare as they continued running.

"Oh… oops."

They were about to reach the next turn off when she felt Argon grab her wrist and tug her backwards. Priscilla stumbled into his body and he hugged her, turning around and tensing. She opened her mouth to ask him what on Lordran he thought he was doing when they needed to avoid their enemies when she saw a burst of blue light followed by Argon's loud grunt.

He let go of her and turned back to face the Channeler that had got the drop on them, an ugly scorch mark steaming in between his shoulder blades.

"Sorry Priscilla, guess I brought the heat down on us early." He said and drew a menacing axe the colour of midnight from his bottomless box before rushing at the scholar charging up another soul arrow.

She gripped her scythe tighter and turned when the golem from earlier appeared from the adjacent corridor behind them, flanked by a pair of smaller, crystal beasts with red eyes and jagged mouths, holding swords made of the same mineral.

With a grimace, Priscilla charged towards them. She hoped Havel would be alright once they found him – _if_ he didn't get to Seath before they did.

* * *

**Word Bank: **

1\. **Kleptomaniac – **(n.) a person with a recurrent urge to steal, typically without regard for need or profit.

2\. **Gobbledygook – **(n.) means the same as jargon, gibberish, nonsense, etc.

3\. **Bibliosmia – **(n.) the smell and aroma of old or good books.

* * *

**Cliff-hanger, I know, don't be mad… please?**

**Anyways, the reason is because my head has just been all over the place recently. Had a lot to do and there's still a boatload to deal with, so if my updates are later than usual please forgive me. Lockdown status has really made a lot of things difficult, BUT I am determined to do as I said I would. I will certainly not be going on hiatus either, not when we're this far into the story.**

**Mm, sweet Bibliosmia… I daresay, I would have spent quite some time in Seath's Archive unravelling every ounce of hidden lore and actual events written in that infinite number of words and pages, as well as anything else there just because I can, dammit. Mr. Jesse, I share your enthusiasm there.**

**Okay, a few things to note:**

**The name Eliana gave to Argon has no correlation to my pen name, in case you were wondering (which I doubt you were). Mihairu7 (the 7 is silent) is just something I decided to make after the character, Miharu Rokujo from "Nabari no Ou", if you were also wondering about that (which, again, I doubt you were). I'll explain the meaning of Argon's given name in the next chapter.**

**As for when Havel mentions seeing the disposed bodies of the maidens the Channeller's abducted, I know that most of Seath's failed experiments on the women he abducts usually end up in his prison as those tentacled monsters that still cry like humans. I made Havel find those women's bodies so that his plan to unveil Seath's blasphemy is explained from its inception. If there is a canological (am I spelling that right?) explanation for Havel's first suspicions of Seath, then I either forgot about it or really don't know. This was just my idea to make his convictions all the more precise.**

**Ah, and if there are any BL fans reading this don't be offended (then again, even if you are, I don't think I'll really care. I love flames and besides that… I'm against yaoi. Always will be), this is just Argon's viewpoint (and possibly my own but that isn't important right now, let's move on).**

**I'll do better to actually make the characters do more than just converse for the next 2, 000 words. I don't know if this is good or bad, but I've noticed that in a few chapters that I've written, the most the characters do is go through a lot of explained thoughts, history, canon and dialogue before progressing into the actual fan-canon by a sliver. This has really been a thorn in my side because I don't want you guys to end up reading a story with over 100 chapters and the first fifty only cover about 25 percent of the story itself. Perhaps I'm overthinking it a little but I've made up my mind to do better and git gud (that reminds me, I've got a surprise for you guys after the next chapter is over) at writing Dark Souls instead of just playing it. Get where I'm coming from? You do? Awesome, have a splendid day.**

**Lastly, I'd like to thank you one-hundred and some change people who are following and supporting this story. I didn't expect my humble writing to gain that much attention, but I'm grateful, nonetheless. You guys really do make my day, so thank you for being you and peace out!**

**-_I see you're back to your old self agai-_ **

**No time for you Illogical me, gotta break my synapses and plummet into excelsis (is that the right term? Ya' know what, I don't really care right now, I'm just too pumped up. Bring on the rhapsody, baby – WOOO!)**

**-_I knew it, the readers new it. He's gone wacky again._ **

**BACHKOII!!!!!**

**-_thank you all for reading._ _Please leave a review._ **


	23. Chapter 23

**Okay, so after a small break consisting of watching Spiderman Homecoming, munching on toasted almonds and reading DARKISH SOULS by _Queen Sydon_ I gathered a tomb-full of inspiration accompanied by a spurt of optimism.**

**As such, I've been quite busy juggling a number of things from the fics (note the plural form) I am currently writing, to the next semester that offers a beautiful selection of modules, ending with the pleasant shine of the morning sun that merges nicely with the dew of last night's cold.**

**Ah, and before I forget, the remainder of this arc (which I still can't decide a name for as yet) will end as soon as the next two, maybe three chapters. I mentioned in the previous chapter that I don't want to spam the content with drawn out conversation or fight scenes but actively move through at least a few good events before ending the chapter entirely. This way, you guys won't be left with nearly fifty chapters that only explains thirty-three percent of the lore and story I've written out.**

**_-hurry up and begin already._ **

**Right, right, just warming up.**

**-_finally. Prepare yourself._ **

**Ahem!**

**-_breathe out._ **

**Haaa…**

**_-action!_ **

**_On with ze story!_**

* * *

Gibberish-speaking sorcerers weren't that odd of a thing to Argon. After meeting both Griggs and Logan, saving them both and gaining the opportunity to learn sorceries from them, he was fairly certain he had seen all needed to see regarding lunatic scholars of magic.

Logan had been an eccentric one. From the small crumbs of information he had gained from the man's subordinate, and tales from Rickert, he knew the silver-haired mage was probably very old to act in a manner besides sagely and annoying – like Havel, for example.

However, the undead possessed one thing in particular that Argon tended to stray away from at all costs; and that was the borderline of obsession every talented scholar gained from an inane interest in the machinations of magical essence.

Whilst the wizard had become a close friend to Argon on his way to Anor Londo, he still tended to tread carefully with the curious man. After he had discovered his crazed, infuriating – and quite frankly creepy – fixation with Seath and his experiments with crystal, Argon had decided that perhaps he had overstayed his welcome in the man's company and had left with discreet haste. When he thought about such odd folk, Argon remembered the reason why he chose to travel alone.

With regard to the blubbering fool dancing in front of him, he agreed that all sorcerers shared the same traits after they had learned their trade; and that was mild insanity with a capital 'y'.

The Chosen Undead saw another homing ball of energy seek him out and began to run to the left of his foe.

Whilst he knew just as many sorceries as the mage's themselves, he was inclined to believe that that league of madness had not taken hold of his psyche, and he doubted it ever will. After all, he was already insane, some mania about spells wouldn't change or alter that in the slightest.

The orb of azure flame burst against the wall behind him with a _poof_ before Argon skid to a halt, crouched and leapt into the air, axe meeting the Channeler's six-eyed head covering with a satisfying _crunch_. He used his lager foes body as a cushion as he fell, quickly jerking it to rest on the right side of him as a crystal straight sword stabbed forward.

Argon looked up at the growling face of a crystal guard the shape and size of some small imp. It was a small fellow, made entirely of the mineral Seath seemed as fascinated with as bloody dragon scales. From the way its shoulders were hunched as it jumped back and circled him, it seemed its weapons were far too heavy for it. However, when the undead had attempted to crush the jagged-bodied guard with the body of the Channeler, he was mildly surprised to see it dash out of the way and raise its shield arm.

Argon merely scoffed. Of course it was still agile, the ugly hunk of shiny rock.

He watched it race forward after a second of hesitation, aiming to impale him with the straight sword. Argon let him come before twisting at the last minute. The blue blade grazed the hair on his stomach harmlessly as the monster's face turned from cockiness to shock, and then fear.

There was a reason Argon had decided not to use a lot of heavy weighted weaponry in his arsenal. One of the reasons was due to the unbalance it caused when swung or thrusted. He was used to light but sharper arms that enabled him to land multiple blows before backing off. Whilst the exceptions to this reason were Artorias' warped blade, his shattered demon hammer, and the black knight greataxe he was currently wielding, he preferred quick and successive strikes that would ultimately cripple his foe instead of a heavy attack that had less than a thirty percent change of hitting its mark. The reason he had the advantage against his current enemy was also due to this reason.

The crystal armament series were strong and powerful tools to use when in need of something that packed a punch. However, whilst the gemstones were made into a sword, it didn't mean it lost any of the attributes of the mineral it actually was – and in this case that attribute was weight.

The undead observed his crystal foe struggle to keep its balance after thrusting the heavy sword forward, cleverly using his slightly lighter shield as a counterweight. Whilst the fool was a monster made by Seath, it possessed no intellect or skill with regard to proper combat, and that was its major flaw.

It screeched as Argon planted his boot into its temple, sending it flying backward. He casually walked up to it as it struggled to get to its feet, desperately trying to lift the heavy blade from the floor, shield forgotten as it noticed the Chosen Undead draw near.

With a frantic stumble it launched at him from the floor, jagged hands seeking out his softer flesh. Argon sniffed as the thing soared towards him, it was almost like a hollow with those red eyes, ugly snarl and idiotic fighting style. He swung his axe and hummed in satisfaction as the crystalline foe broke into a mass of shattered rock before his feet. The momentum forced the great mass of twisted metal to veer around him, his elbow bending. Seems he had used too much force this time around.

A snarl from behind caught Argon's attention and he twisted with his axe. The quick motion shocked the crystal compatriot that was about to spear him through the chest, allowing the undead the pleasure of clipping its cheek. It didn't get the chance to even screech before Argon's boot smashed into its head, shattering more crystal onto the polished floor.

Another reason why the black knight series was an exception was due to its versatile use and quick but powerful chain of attacks. Whilst the greataxe he wielded didn't possess that last trait, it was useful in carrying wasted momentum into kinetic power strong enough to cleave off the head of a Taurus Demon. Besides that, the light but study shaft of the weapon made for an ideal brace whenever incoming attacks couldn't be dodged.

The undead turned to Priscilla to see her finishing off a golem with a twirl of her scythe. He still felt bad for drawing their enemies toward their location but at the same time, he way silently grateful that he did – seeing her fight was the most beautiful sight, the first being herself, he had ever seen in all honesty.

Even though her table manners were atrocious, her fighting-style was anything but. The way in which she danced around her attackers was something that transfixed him. With his abyssal right eye – he scoffed at how delusional that sounded – he saw the ethereal power of her Lifehunt arc around her slim body like smooth tendrils of some spectral being before it cascaded around her scythe, the blade gleaming like the crescent moon before tearing out the life essence of the golem couched in front of her.

Argon observed as she diverted that stolen power within her body, spinning it in a maelstrom of deadly power as two crystal hollows intercepted her. Her hair flew around her pale face like an elegant veil as she twisted, lowered herself into a crouch and unleashed that coil of energy. He blinked and suddenly Priscilla's foes were nothing but shattered shards of mineral before her high-heeled boots.

The goddess tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as he stared at her. She never looked more radiant.

"Reinforcements will arrive soon." Argon blinked and noticed her gaze on him. What had he been doing again?

"Uh, yeah. We should get going."

Priscilla nodded as her tail slapped against the floor making the undeads attention turn to it. With how big and noticeable that alluring appendage of hers was, it was a surprise that she had taken out more of Seath's minions than he had – and without even a scratch to boot.

Remembering his own wounds, Argon rested his axe against his shoulder as he reached for an item behind his back. Finding nothing, he frowned in confusion until he remembered that he didn't have an Estus flask anymore.

_Right, I smashed it while I went berserk on Gwyndolin._

The masked undead uttered out a silent curse as he and Priscilla walked on, climbing up a set of white stairs after finding a trail of crystal shards that was undoubtedly left as breadcrumbs for them to follow.

He would have to be more careful from now on. Getting hit when he had the chance to avoid it would only disadvantage him further. He knew he could always substitute sprites of humanity for the healing ambrosia he lacked but even then, it was overkill and extremely wasteful. In the past he had utilized the black sprites he found on corpses to replenish his vitality and heal his wounds since he felt that using his Estus was better suited for when he faced more dangerous opponents. However, after he had been attacked by hordes of phantoms for possessing such an abundance of humanity and having more than a few of his ally's stress just how precious the substance was, he had been inclined to switch to his flask.

It wasn't his fault he was just unnaturally lucky at finding those sprites, it just happened when he least expected it. And to be fair, if Griggs or even Solaire had warned him about the consequences of consuming so many of them, maybe he wouldn't have had to die nearly twenty-one times by phantom invasion; especially that time when a Giantdad had strolled into the Undead Burg and stared him down for nearly five minutes before killing him with a single slice – seriously, those otherworldly undead were scary. Although, on the matter of those mask-wearing juggernauts, he had figured out the perfect defense: gear up in the heaviest equipment, fat roll into an inconspicuous corner and cast Chameleon until his magical power was depleted or until the phantoms time limit elapsed. Argon hadn't gotten a chance to try it out yet, and when he thought about how strong he had become after regaining some unwanted memories and an abyssal boost he didn't think he would really need to cower and hide, but the idea of fooling those lumberjacks in old-men masks with a simple illusion was too good to pass up.

Argon's thoughts shifted from invasions to a different juggernaut dressed up like a walking turd when he and Priscilla came upon the lingering traces of Havel's scent resting upon the crushed corpse of a downed Mimic.

They stared at the monster with its limbs stuck at peculiar angles before turning their gaze to the adjacent turn off.

"This is Havel's work alright."

The crossbreed nodded, bending over to prod the Mimic with the shaft of her weapon. "The scent is fresher than the others. I would hazard a guess to say that it was less than three hours since he was here."

"Which means he couldn't have gone too far within the vast labyrinth we appear to be stuck in." Argon punched his fist into his open palm. It was possible that the older undead was still walking around smashing things to smithereens, which meant there was still a chance that they could prevent him from facing the paledrake alone. However, if the undead were to allow himself to be pessimistic for once and assume that the Bishop had already reached Seath, it meant that they were either going to appear as his reinforcements in a losing battle; or the second wave after the first had been purged.

"Still though, would a few prism stones and a message on the floor be too much to ask?"

Priscilla smiled at the thought. They both knew that the armored giant wasn't one to fill his belt with any trinkets besides his old and unused talisman. He had even refused Argon's offer to find him a new Estus flask, stating that it would just hinder him by making him rely on it too much. Even so, his quick thinking of using the broken bodies of the crystalline foes he had bested as a bread-crumb trail was creative – if not a little twisted when you thought about where said crystal shards came from.

"We should be glad all the same." The crossbreed stated with a soft sigh. She was beginning to worry about the man that behaved almost like her grandfather.

"That I agree with," Argon replied. He neared the end of the narrow hallway they were following before he held up a hand. Priscilla stopped obediently behind him as he poked his masked face into the slightly darker room.

They remained in silence as he scouted their way and she found herself staring at the burn mark centered between his shoulder blades. Whilst it had been his fault that they had attracted attention, he had still shielded her from the blast that should have hit her. She knew it wouldn't have left much of a scratch on her after she had killed and absorbed the life-force of her foes, but the thought was still enough to make heat rush to the surface of her skin. She had read about maidens being saved from such attacks in many fairy tales, she was just astonished that he had decided to make her imagination a reality.

She was glad that the undead had shifted back to his usual persona of jolliness and foolish antics. In all honesty, she had feared that he wouldn't have calmed down after what had happened to him in the Great Hall. However, even though he behaved normally when they had encountered those boars, and his pointless stop at that particular part of the Archives was without a doubt, an Argon-thing to do; Priscilla still held a tiny dreg of reservation within herself when regarding her companion.

She had observed his personality and behaviors long enough to know when he was being truthful or not, and even she had to admit that although Argon wasn't that grim, menacing person he had appeared as with her uncle, it seemed like this returning aloofness was a little too forced.

It was obvious that he was conflicted about something, that distant look on his monochrome face the previous night before her eyes had closed was proof enough. Besides that, he was avoiding her gaze as if he were guilty of doing something scandalous. That rose a red flag in her mind since Argon never chose to look away from her, even when he _had_ done something wrong. He was the type of person to hold his head up high during his rising and falling, after all.

His raised hand changed from a fist to two raised fingers beckoning her forward; the gesture meaning 'follow'. She padded on behind him without a sound as they ducked into a stairway leading to a lower level. They stopped midway as a Channeler lumbered through the hallway they had just exited and the axe in Argons right hand poofed out of existence before he drew his catalyst. He turned to her and she understood his meaning, drawing closer to him. He threw his arm around her and waved the ash-colored catalyst above them. She blinked and before the Channeler reached the bend of the stairwell, they became invisible to all but one another. She tapped his bare shoulder and they began to move again.

Whatever was the case with him, she would find out and help him. Whether it meant hindering their current mission or abandoning it entirely, she wouldn't hesitate if it meant his or Sir Havel's lives. It didn't matter if he hated her for it or not because they were too important to her to lose. She may indeed feel a stronger bond than friendship with Argon, but she would prioritize him no matter the circumstance. And it wasn't because of her attraction to him but because he was her friend before he was her savior. She had never had friends, never been able to share something, or _anything_ with _anyone_ since the time she was very little. Now that she had such bonds, however, she would fight both fang and claw until those she cared for were safe – even if it meant she had to save them from themselves.

Priscilla's thoughts broke when Argon tugged at the hem of her bodice. She turned her head to him as he nodded towards something at the opposite end of the segment of the Archive they stood in. Her eyes shone like jade in the shadows as she followed his gaze.

Just down the next flight of stairs, towards the ground level, sat another lever on the right wing. Next to it, a balcony that covered the open hall from one end to next sat a similar lift system from the one the pair had previously used. The goddess traced the thin lines ascending the wall from above the contraption. It looked as if it went passed the multiple floors they were currently navigating, and if her intuition was right – which it usually was – then that meant that this lift would most likely lead to another facet of the castle.

From what she remembered as a child; her father's study had also possessed a similar way to reach it. Further evidence that the object they stared at was a possible lead was that it was built larger than the first lift they had taken – much, _much_ larger. Although that was a poor exhibit, she took into account that besides the Channeler's and the golems, only the paledrake was the largest being that resided in the castle. With that in mind, she couldn't think of any other reason why this lift was built that spacious.

The thought that it was made for large groups to move within the castle was also a point that was rendered moot as the only large groups they had seen so far were a quartet of crystal hollows accompanied by a single blue golem – and a party of five was barely enough to fill a _corner_ of the lift, never mind the entire thing.

So, with both herself and Argon at an accord, they got up and crept towards the descending staircase, weapons drawn. She would have preferred it if they could enter the lift stealthily. That way they would be full of energy to face her father, however; that idea was shot down by more than one arrow of reason.

The first was the issue of the lift system itself. Whilst they were capable of reaching the lever by not attracting much attention, the noise of a multitude of gears turning and varnished wood creaking would echo throughout the hall, which would garner them more company than they would like.

The second was their magic. Whilst she was a goddess and he was the Chosen Undead, they had been using spells and incantations from the moment they had reached the first floor of the Archive. And even though her uncle was leagues ahead of Lord Gwyn in terms of magical prowess, she was not. They would both run out of magic by the time they reached the bridge between the wings. Besides that, if they decided to cast another spell of invisibility they would be detected during mid-run when the incantation decided to peter out prematurely. The option of simply shanking a nearby enemy and draining his life to refuel her reserves was also out of the question. The idea was to get to the lift undetected, so killing a crystalline foe whilst invisible in front of an open hall of Channelers, golems and more hollows would just echo out and indicate their position – which was counter-intuitive and would ruin the original objective.

Any other reasons were directed toward chance, luck and fate. The crossbreed didn't require any logic to know that all three of those elements were detestably unfavorable to both herself and Argon, so in all frankness, stealth was not an option they could utilize this time around.

With those thoughts in mind, Argon drew a black bow from his inventory and took aim from in between the circular beams supporting the railing. With a soft exhale, he allowed the flame-tipped arrow to fly.

After some silent discussion, Priscilla and Argon had agreed that a distraction would be their best bet if they wanted to reach that lever sooner.

The arrow illuminated the hazy light in the room before it struck against the forehead of a sentry standing stop one of the bookshelves. The crystal hollow squawked as the flame burst against its face, alerting the Channeler's stationed on opposite sides of the open hall who muttered in their gibberish tongue before readying spells and nearby guards.

Argon chose that exact moment to cast aural decoy. Priscilla watched as the bright, circular mass of magical essence shot forward from his catalyst before attaching itself to one of the astronomy instruments resting against the length of the room with resounding noise. The guards seemed to take the bait as one of the Dragon's scholars fired off a soul arrow toward the area as a trio of crystal hollows dashed towards it in a frenzy of snarls.

She had never understood why Argon insisted on carrying that spell around with him everywhere he went. Even when he had given her the synopsis of what it could do, her mind had still found it difficult to understand why he kept that low-level spell around with him, nonetheless. To her, the spell itself seemed useless to him since the undead was known to draw as much attention as possible when fighting; and even if he was trying to be stealthy, he could do so without the use of charms or spells.

But after witnessing the way in which he was causing their enemies to amble around like headless poultry when all he had done was stand still, her perception regarding the innocuous scroll from Vinheim had surely been swayed.

She watched on while the Channeler's banged their tridents against the ground in frustration, seeking out a foe that was there and yet unseen even by their gazes. Argon decided to annoy them more by sending another noisy ball of magic towards the moving staircase above them. Instantly, both six-eyed mage's scrambled to reach the next floor, their crystal allies in toe as the wounded sentry and a single golem was left to guard the ground floor.

Their ploy had worked.

The only thing left was to sneak toward the right wing and pull down that device and it would be smooth sailing from there. Well, that was if they made it to Havel before he reached Seath's chambers, at least. For now, their foe's attention was divided. Even if they were caught running for the lift, it would take too much time for the scholars and minions to reach them before they ascended to the top floor.

Argon wasted no time in using that opportunity. With a practiced hand, he reached behind him toward the quiver resting diagonally across the back of his belt and withdrew a thin, silver arrow with impeccable detail on the head. With a minute nod at the craftsmanship of the projectile, he placed it against the smooth wood of his bow and pulled back the drawstring before releasing it with a swift exhale. This time, it took less than a second for the arrow to hit its mark; and this time it did more than wound its target.

He smiled in satisfaction as the sentry holding a longbow screeched in pain, its right arm shattered into splinters of shiny rock as the moonlight arrow continued to burrow into its side, jerking its body sideways and off the bookshelf. Priscilla didn't need to wait for the sound of shattering crystal to be heard, her feet rushed into motion as soon as Argon let go of the arrow.

The crystal golem thudded around the bookshelf as it sought for the cause of the sudden noise, whilst the group on the upper floor jittered in uncertainty as the different noises clouded their judgement. As the crossbreed reached the right wing and meandered around the safety rail of the lift Argon sped off.

After being pummeled and skewered like a pincushion by Gwyndolin in the Throne Room, he had taken note of how much more efficient the gods arrows were. When Borgus had first offered him the set of projectiles when they had met, Argon had quickly refused, stating that they looked to pretty to be lethal – that and he had been forced to find an excuse since the price for just fifteen was bloody expensive for freaking arrows. However, now he saw the beauty of it. Gwyndolin's arrows were much different compared to the more reliable feathered ones he used for sniping.

Since it was made of the light Lordrian metal that the swords were also crafted from, they flew farther than the average arrow whilst also packing the strong punch every good archer was known for. Besides the weight, it was shorter than the usual arrow, allowing increased accuracy; and the head was shaped in a hollow spiral that connected at an extremely sharp point. With those attributes, they flew at their targets faster, and with a stronger bite. He was glad he had decided to swipe some of those discarded shafts of metal when he was leaving the Throne Room.

His feet were nimble as they ran over the marble floors, only making as much noise a sparrow's chirp. With this strategy, they would reach their destination in record time to find Havel, he knew. All that needed to be done was for him to reach the goddess' side and their mission would be half-complete.

Priscilla yanked down the lever as she entered the larger lift platform, seeing Argon grab onto the upper railing of the stairway and vault over it with a display of superb acrobatics and strength. Her heartbeat quickened as the adrenaline in her system slowed everything down to a snail's pace. She watched as the golem on the ground floor turned its faceless head toward her at the sound of the many gears and mechanical parts inside the lift whirring to life. She saw the Channeler's and crystal hollows above them on the moving staircase jerk to a halt as they realized they had been duped. And she observed Argon, sprinting towards her as the platform lifted a few inches off the balcony. She noticed how he was taking longer strides, and how low his body was to the ground, his arms flung out on either side of him.

He would make it.

And make it, he did. As the lift began to pick up speed, he launched his body toward it like a coiled spring let loose. His form flew towards the safety rail like a panther after its prey and his hands slapped against the beams before squeezing tightly. He sighed out in relief and she smiled in delight. She never doubted him, not even for a second.

However, even if skill was on their side, luck was anything but. That fact was displayed rather well when a sudden mass of crystal stalagmites grew from nothing against the railing and speared him with enough force to break the skull of a Taurus Demon. The air left his lungs as he was knocked into the air, the corner of his mask chipping as it skidded onto the platform Priscilla stood on.

"No, Argon!" she screamed as the lift picked up speed and shot towards the top floor. Argon became smaller and smaller in her eyes until the dark shadows of the walls obscured her sight entirely, leaving her to stare at nothing but the tunnel she was ascending.

She knew she shouldn't worry. She knew that even though his head was a mess, he was still capable of surviving without her help. Yet, even as she lifted his mask from the floor with shaky fingers and hugged it to her chest with dread, she couldn't help but make a small prayer to anyone that would listen to her. For what she feared wasn't the foes Argon had to face, but the undead himself after he was allowed to derange his passive exterior with something much more gruesome.

There had been many reasons why she was so inclined to cling to him like some lovestruck maiden. One of those reasons were for the fact that above all else, she worried for his safety on a daily basis; prayed for his deliverance from insanity almost constantly. She knew she was leagues above him in power and all she would need to do if he acted up was simply cut him down. It wouldn't be easy to catch him if he went into a frenzy, but she would manage it. The only problem with that was that it wouldn't change anything after he revived; and besides that… how could she openly kill the man she loved? Although it was stated that people would kill for love and even die for it, she argued that she wasn't _people_, but just herself. If she could help it, she would rather nobody died for the sake of love, otherwise what was the point of loving at all.

When it came down to it, the only reason she had taken this gentle approach towards him was because even though she had the power to kill gods and rule the kingdom that had exiled her, it was useless in saving the _one_ thing she did care for. No amount of energy from her Lifehunt would fix his decaying mind, none of her magic could slow the spread of the abyss latched onto his right side. As a goddess – she didn't even know what goddess she was meant to be – her gift was anything but an aide to him. Thus, the only way she could truly save him was as Priscilla, and not as a crossbreed.

As the gears of the platform ground to a halt and yet another dim corridor was laid before her emerald eyes, she steeled herself with a shallow breath and placed a hand onto her scythe. Argon would be fine, she assured herself. Whilst he made his way back to her, she would clear the path for him to follow behind. Besides, she still needed to find Sir Havel. Their reuniting wouldn't be the same without every member of their party together.

She turned his mask over and stared at it. What she needed now was courage, and only one person was able to give her the push she needed for that. She just hoped a part of him was enough to clear her unease and spur on her determination. Without a second thought, she lifted the mask to her own face. She didn't have anywhere to place such an object anyway, and her pouches were too small – although secretly she was elated that she could wear such a personal part of the undead.

At first, she had thought that it was a dumb idea since the mask needed clips to latch onto. However, she was surprised when she placed the porcelain carving on only to feel the sensation of magic touch her skin. It seemed there was more to such a simple object that she gave it credit for.

Priscilla shook her head and took a deep breath, though blushing at the thought that Argon's face and mouth had been on the face covering just moments ago. Her thoughts about his mask – as well as how strong his delicious scent was on said item – could wait. She withdrew a small stone from one of the pouches on her hip and dropped it in front of the lift system. She observed it glow in four different colors before stalking off, focused and determined to make it out of her with both her friends by her side.

* * *

The word ironic came to mind as Argon fell on his ass. Yet again. By all right, he should have expected that his plan would fail. Not because he was the one who created the plan though, his plans were always brilliant. No, it was due to the fact that he was _also_ participating in said plan. That was why it had failed. He didn't know if Lordran just wanted him to suffer or if he just really had the worst luck in the bloody world, but he knew that things really never went his way. When he thought about it, he wondered if perhaps that was the reason he rushed into everything blindly. After all, if his plan was bound to fail because he carried the biggest debuff known to man then what was the point in wasting time on a strategy?

Either way, he was glad that Priscilla was safely on that lift. All his machinations may indeed fail where he was around, but he would do his damn best to ensure those he cared for would remain alive and well.

At least, that _was_ what he was going to say… until his mask had been knocked off his face.

He couldn't understand it really. One moment he was fine, calm and collected – his usual idiotic self. The next he felt cold fingers reach down his throat and grab ahold of his heart before some noxious vapor corroded his lungs and clouded his judgement. It was as if someone had flipped a switch, and Argon was no longer there. It was as if his mind had just turned abysmal.

With a loud groan he got up from the floor, his hand rubbing the sore spot on his head as the crystal golem took lethargic steps toward him. He raised his gaze at the hulking mass of rock and sighed, they had picked a terrible day to piss him off.

The undead rose to his feet, equipping twin blades as the golem dropped into a crouch and leapt into the air like some fat frog. He huffed and jumped back as the fingerless fist slammed against the tiles, causing spiderweb cracks to form from the point of impact. It took its time to rise once again so he dashed forward and swung at the exposed neck.

The undeads blade struck with enough force to break chunks off the noiseless beast before he twisted and speared it from behind with his other blade. He watched boredly as the golem's 'neck' shattered with a show of sparkling crystal before it collapsed with a loud bang.

Seath was the smartest being in Anor Londo next to fem-boy and all he could come up with were suits of crystal that abducted women? He was beginning to question the need for such an archive if the paledrake couldn't even install proper lights into his manor. Then again, perhaps the blue golems served more than one purpose? They _did_ reflect the dim lights around the room pretty well, and if you shot one with a soul spear they lit up like a firework.

_Maybe they **were** just for show?_

He shook his head. It didn't matter, he wasn't up for hypothesizing today, just violence.

At the mention of the word he liked to refer to as physical sport, Argon found a torrent of new foes flood the right and left wings, armed with crystal straight swords, shields and those ridiculous tridents. He grinned as a chorus of gibberish was chanted by the Channeler's as the crystal hollows dived down from their stations to meet him. This was going to be mildly fun.

_(Queue: **I write sins, not tragedies **by **Panic! At the disco**)_

Argon took this moment to pop the stiffness in his neck and roll his shoulders. The crystal scrubs circled him with shields raised. He wondered if they would come at him one at a time like the brainless husks they were or overwhelm him in numbers. He got his answer after the first soul arrow was fired.

A single hollow rushed him with as much bravery as its empty skull could afford it, sword raised to slice his bare chest. Argon watched him with a small amount of respect for the little mass of crystal and magic essence before his brow twitched and the movement in the open room slowed as if one had plucked out time from the world.

He watched as the azure bolt sped towards him in a perfectly straight line, twin tails spinning around the initial line like a protective barrier as the arrow barreled toward him with a vengeance. Through his right eye, he saw the way the magic spun wildly like an excited ball of energy. Saw the actual 'head' of the bolt as well as where it ended. It was beautiful, in its own way. Magic was an amazing thing. It was just a shame that it was useless when used on someone with common sense – and at times a helping of stupidity.

As the arrow entered his personal bubble, Argon leaned to the side. The hollow growled with a jagged smirk, thinking it had bested him and pressed its advance. Argon waited until the bolt of blazing energy stood parallel with his foe before flicking his wrist. The flat of his sword clipped the soul arrow, making it change direction as it blasted the incoming hollow at point blank range. The other scholars of Seath stopped their chanting to watch in shock as their ally was blown to pieces.

Argon sniffed and tightened his grip on his blades. It was his turn now.

The nearest crystal hollow to his left didn't get a second to block as the undeads sword pieced the monster in the shoulder. Its wail broke the other guards from their trance, and they turned back to Argon as he lopped off the ugly things head. The blades he was using weren't anything special, and they would shatter if he continued to use them with as much force as he was now, but that didn't matter to him as he jumped into the air from a sword aiming for his gut and booted the foe in the temple. What mattered was that he was entertained, given reason to let loose as his pent-up bloodlust reigned supreme over his psyche.

When he landed the remaining two hollows charged at him in unison. It was touching to see they had learned something but equally disappointing that their fragile thinking was exactly like their fragile bodies. They approached with a thrust and a slash aimed to impale his thigh and open his throat, he replied with a roll to the side and sweep of his right leg. With the force he put into the latter, the first hollows leg shattered at the knee before he impaled the second through the skull with his short sword. The wounded mass of crystal cried in pain and he saw thick, translucent liquid run from the smashed limb making him huff in surprise. Who would have thought that you could make a rock bleed?

Argon let go of the sword stuck in the first hollow and two-handed his other, bringing it down upon the second with enough force to shatter the blade _and_ sever the things neck.

His victory was cut short when two soul arrows struck his chest and hip, sending him flailing across the room to the left wing.

A choked laugh escaped his cut lips as he stood again before drawing his black knight greataxe. Things were getting interesting.

He ran up the stairway as another bolt of magic singed the bookshelf behind him. When he reached the first Channeler on his side of the room, he lashed out with an uppercut before swinging his axe. It tore through the flashy garb and the scholar roared in pain. The sound was so pleasing to him that he swung his axe again. And again. The Channeler's screams reached its peak and Argon swatted it a final time, sending the taller foe careening over the banister. He noticed the next one firing off a spell in front of him and he dived for the floor, rolling under the blast and rising with a powerful swung that flung the Channeler into the air with a loud cracking of ribs. The undead found the last one on his side of the room take a step back in caution and he grinned like a maniac before rushing forward as the previous scholar crashed to the floor with a sickening _crack._

He spun on his heel, planting his axe into the floor as he stomped forward and threw the curved blade upwards. The Channeler could only raise and arm before the appendage and his neck was torn open. The undead sighed out as warm blood sprayed his face and chest, it had been so _long_ since he had had the chance to experience the revelry of such a spectacle – and he wasn't counting the time that serpentine heretic decided to play tag with him.

He heard more chanting and snapped his head sideways to see five more scholars of Seath preparing for him. He vaulted over the railing and landed heavily on a pile of books before breaking into a run. Two of the scholars were dancing from one foot to another whilst the remaining three charged up stronger projectiles before firing them simultaneously. The trio of azure arrows circled around one another as they sped towards him. he merely grinned as he stopped running, spread his arms wide and took the blast head-on. The burning pain and pure energy that pierced his skin brought with it a crateload of pleasure to his senses and he cackled.

When the bright explosion cleared, he looked down to see more burn marks and blood along his abdomen. With a raised eyebrow, he noted that although their spells had spun wildly en-route to him, they had landed in a perfectly straight vertical line along his left side.

He didn't wait for his adversaries to repeat their method of attack as the tossed a firebomb their way and climbed the stairs yet again. The explosion hit two of them, and he heard their babbled language before he found a trident impaled through his gut, making him gasp.

The next sensation he felt was a solid right hook by another scholar before he was blasted in the chest by a stronger soul arrow. He felt his body go numb as his axe left his hand, back skidding against the cold floor until his head bashed into the wall of the joining corridor.

Argon groaned for a second time as his senses went hazy. His vision went blank, yet he could still hear the cheers of the Channeler's in their usual gibberish, and for a moment he wondered what he had been doing to end up bleeding on the floor. Wasn't he meant to be on the lift with Priscilla? And if so, where was she?

He felt his mind cave in on itself as he fell into a sea of black. And amidst a cacophony thoughts and voices, he heard one sound clearly. It didn't sound as noisy as the rest but at the same time it wasn't as kind as the rest. Even so, he needed to latch onto _something_ if he were to make it back to Priscilla and Havel. He focused on that voice until it began to drown out the rest, and eventually it drowned out his own deliberation.

_More. More,_ it said as he felt his control slipping. The black veins on his body began to writhe like earthworms as a malevolent violet aura oozed over his right side, and soon the shroud of vapor covered his entire form like some ethereal fire. The Channeler's only noticed it when he had risen to his feet, but by that time it was already too late for them to react.

The voice in his head spoke louder until the stillness around him was too noisy to bear. And then it spoke with such conviction that he wondered why he had failed to listen to it sooner.

**I. Want. _More_.**

Argon's eyes snapped open as the noxious vapor rushed out from his person like a flash flood, soaking the room in dark purple before everything went black for nearly the hundredth time.

* * *

When Argon opened his eyes again, he was kneeling in the opened abdomen of a Channeler, his hands and mouth soaked in red. With a gasp, he tried to get away from such a sight, only to fall face first into the body. He felt something squishy press against his brow and lifted his head to see the scholar's liver bare before him incased by jagged pieces of bloody flesh.

With a spasm, he lurched away from the corpse and emptied his stomach. The sight of such a grotesque display making his body tremble. As the last spasm overtook his body, he breathed in deeply only to look down at the mess he made. That had been a mistake. Instantly, he realized where all the other organs and parts had gone to, and he hurled again.

He wondered what had happened to him to make him do something so animalistic and turned to scan the room around him. That head been his second mistake. He saw the mutilated corpses of four other Channeler's scattered around the wing, their entrails exposed in the same manner as the first.

Terror filled Argon as his eyes went glassy. Thoughts bombarded his mind questioning, scolding, and shouting for an answer he could not give. For a moment he tried to remember the last thing he did before his mind when blank.

He recalled being impaled, yet when he looked back down the wound was healed. He remembered the soul spear attacks that burnt him, and yet when he felt his back and chest, he felt nothing there. He attempted to recall what he had done after his head had hit that wall, but nothing came to mind besides a loud, ominous voice.

As if that was the switch he had accidentally flipped, he felt his sight grow black once again as his thoughts drifted to how _good_ he had felt when he had let himself go berserk. And although he didn't want to relinquish control to something he _knew_ would land him in more danger than before, the pull was just too great that he allowed it anyways.

In an instant, his mortified features reverted back into a sadistic grin as he stood, wiped his mouth with the back of his blood-stained hand, reached the right wing and pulled down the lever for the lift. It reached the balcony in less than a minute and he entered it silently, pulling down the second device and ascending towards the top floor.

When the lift stopped again, he took a single step forward until his gaze found the soft glow of a prism stone. He reached down and picked it up before his grin grew wider. His heretical companion left this behind, he could still smell her.

Without further hesitation, he walked past a small accumulation of astrology tools toward a passageway covered in pure crystal. This must be where his actual target was hiding. He sniffed and went to approach it when he heard the clinking of armor- no, the clatter of rock.

From the shadows of the crystalline passage came the humanoid form of a crystalline soldier, resting a crystal broadsword on his shoulder. He regarded Argon with a blank look behind his blank head-covering before lifting his shield.

Argon rolled his shoulders and drew a morning star from his bottomless box. How thoughtful fate was. He was just thinking of how nice it would be to excavate a mine. The soldier stopped a few feet short from him before dropping the shield and hauling his heavy weapon towards the undead.

Argon merely sniffed as he intercepted the attack and planted a strong punch into the soldier's face. This would keep him entertained for a short while. Seath wasn't going anywhere so he could afford a few minutes to play with his new friend…

After exactly four minutes and twenty seconds, Argon whistled the tune of an old song as he swung the head of his fallen enemy around, climbing the cold stairway casually as his weapon tapped against each step with a dull knocking. It carried on like a second beat to his rhythmic whistling.

_Tink-Tink-Tink-Tink-TONK!_

The fog wall blocked his progress into the Duke's Chambers, and he sighed at the delay before dropping the head in his hand, watching as it bounced all the way back down the stairway. This was it. The final stop. It was time for him to act like the 'Chosen Undead' everyone thought he was.

He scoffed and tilted his head to the side.

_Pathetic._ He was no one's Chosen anything. Not their warrior, not their lap dog and by no means their _savior_. He was just Argon, the arbiter of the world. The twisted dagger of justice meeting out punishment to those that dared to call themselves gods, and all those that believed in such heresy.

This scaleless dragon would fair no different. Although his race was nothing near the so-called 'divine' and he was basically the omega of the winged lizards, he had still possessed the nerve to ally himself with three contemptuous excuses for deities.

'The Souls of Lords'? He had never heard of anything so pompous. What Lords? From which age? In which kingdom? According to what annal? They were simply the early birds that caught the ugly bloody worm. Whether there was indeed a time when these supposed 'Lords' were around over millennia ago was debatable, and perhaps he was being just a tad dismissive. However, _these_ wretches were anything but Lords.

He had been correct with what he had said to Gwyndolin in the Great Hall, both he and the gender-confused last born knew it well. All these false gods were just like everyone else, _hollows._

The first hollows, if he were to be exact. Born from the Flame? Yes. That was probably one of the reasons the three of them worshiped a bloody pile of embers so much, it was practically like their mother. But gods? No. Lords? Not a chance.

Delusional was the correct answer. They were all drunk from the souls they had claimed, created not from the lives of whatever great existence once lived before them, but by the world around them. The soul of Light was simply born from the intensity of the sun, or even a vestige of the First Flame itself. The soul of Life was merely a rendition of nature and its ouroboros given personification. And the soul of Death? Well… perhaps that _was_ the only true power worthy of the title of Lord. But a god, Nito was not. Just an amorphous caretaker of the dead. In truth, he was the only one Argon felt inclined to respect. The mass of skeletons had chosen to fall into an eternal slumber away from the bullshit this world was beginning to form, after all. He had escaped the calamity of his brethren by simply not giving a damn. Such devotion to remain pure was admirable.

But now was not the time for such thoughts, Argon reminded himself as he shook his head. He was going to kill possibly the last everlasting dragon still in existence. Honestly, he didn't know how he was going to kill something that was 'everlasting'. Seriously, even if he hadn't been lied to by pecker-face in Firelink and fem-boy in the castle, the fact that his undead task be to kill something that was by all right immortal was plain stupidity. He should have known these quests were more than they appeared at face value.

Fairly speaking, it was Gwyn's fault for giving a shard of his soul to a being that couldn't be killed in the first place. Argon scoffed again at the thought that the 'Lord of Cinder' would most likely be kicking himself if he ever realized that his legacy would probably never be followed again because he foolishly gave a being with insane longevity the buff that was a shard of his 'Lord Soul'.

Either way, he still loved a challenge. That was what made his boring existence all the more livable. So, without much more thought on the matter, the undead pushed a hand through the fog door, followed by and arm, followed by his left shoulder… until his entire body went through the misty barrier and onto the other side.

* * *

Seath prided himself on many things. The first, that he was able to take his revenge on his brethren- no, not the blind superiority of the gods, his dragonkin. It had been an agonizing wait when the world was nothing but crags and arch trees, where the only way he could stimulate his curious mind was pester the few everlasting dragons that would put up with his poking and prodding – even if he _was_ sightless to begin with.

He recalled those days, and he recalled them well. He had been the ostracized one, seen as both a weakling and a nuisance just because he had been born scaleless. The times he had been forced to grovel at the feet of others that _thought_ they were more powerful than him were nearly as numerous as the stars in the night sky, but he had waited it out patiently; playing the role of the pathetic paledrake with ease.

In truth, he hadn't known that the Age of Ancients would come to an end, but he had felt something leading to it in his breast. He wasn't able to explain it at the time – not that any of his brethren would have listened – but it was as if he had received a premonition that remained with him after birth. And from the moment he had begun to despise his own ilk for their lethargy and contempt towards him, he had prepared himself for the day when all that he saw before him would be erased by hellfire and death.

And lo and behold, that day came.

The second meritorious achievement he still praised himself for to this day – because even an ancient beast like himself could be self-centered – was the act of landing in the Lord of Sunlight's good graces. The fool was as dim as he appeared old, and honestly Seath took pleasure in the fact that he had become one of the Shining City's dependents, even after that nosey Bishop had had the stomach to oppose him. In a matter of simple decades that passed as quickly sand through an hourglass, he had secured his own stronghold of knowledge and power.

Despite many trusted aides to Gwyn whispering their mistrust of him here and there, they had possessed no force to stop him as he became an Archive the world itself bent over backwards to explore and commune with. When he thought about it clearly, it was probably only due to his hunger for discovery and wisdom that lead to Gwyn turning a blind eye to his dark machinations.

The third act he found most compelling to recall was the day the Flame began to sputter.

The kingdom was in chaos, the Lord of Death resigned leaving everything to ones that possessed the power to change events in life, and that sad excuse for a Witch had turned herself into the very thing she tried to avoid. The sun had waned, and the hearths intensity seemed to lose a certain degree of its vigor. Even Oolacile, the peaceful neighbor of Lordran had fallen – a feat that seemed so impossible at the time despite all the warning signs that the gods had either blatantly ignored or just failed to notice. To make matters worse even that quartet of greedy humans had infected New Londo with untamed abyssal magic. Things had spiraled so out of control that the god of Lightning himself had been forced to pay him a visit to ardently plead for his assistance.

Those days had been very intriguing to his pale snout. With the Flame fading and the world threatening to collapse on its side, he could have jumped in – been the unwanted hero by using all he possessed to save their sad little bonfire of ages.

However, his study of immortal scales and timeless magic had been far too inviting to turn down. What's more, he had been on the cusp of utilizing crystal as a source of potential power known as 'pure magus'. He couldn't very well stop when he was on a proverbial roll.

Even so, the events that transpired did irk him mildly. To live through a singular age of nothingness was worthy of merit. But to live through the rise and twilight days of another was just cursed luck. Of course, he had known that he _would_ survive it no matter the circumstances, however, the fact remained that in all that time the world was beginning to shift perhaps a little _too_ fast.

From his eyes on the ground, he had been alerted of numerous problems with the new world. Kingdoms that sought to claim the near-deserted Anor Londo, the spread of the Abyss after that knight that smelt of hound fur had failed in his conquest. There had been talk of a full-scale crusade as well. Kingdoms like Berenike and Baldor that rode upon the bravest steeds, wearing iron as tough as a demon's hide. To divert more attention, beasts had begun to frolic out of Lordran. Whispers of Astora being purged within a single night by a lone monster spread like wildfire around the continent.

And let's not forget the _other_ minds that were at play.

Velka and her judgement that seemed to extend toward the divinity living in their ivory towers. Human scholars, that tortured souls of others and derived trinkets of magic from their agony. The sudden disappearance of the giant race – he had found little news with regard to that. And who could ever forget the problems that lay in a kingdom so distant to Lordran, Gwyn's rays barely kissed its cold feet? Yes, even talk of the troubles that lie in wait within Ring City had tickled his ears.

But above all else, he could not forget the suddenness of the Darksign. Interesting magic that came as a result of the accumulation of humanities carnal thinking – or so he theorized. It was a plague that had infected nearly seventy-five percent of the human race – and even then, the ones that managed to not contract it still overwhelmed the gods by millions. Then talk of a new hero began to spout around the globe, whether by the reeking serpents or the goddess of sin, he knew not – only that this rumor meant more harm than good to his trove of influence.

With such perplexities at work, the variables had dazed him. Seath had never imagined such a thing to be possible, given that he was, without a shadow of doubt, the wisest being in the world. With that assumption, he had thought he could plan for every and any eventuality.

But to his dismay – or perhaps it was interest – he had found himself stumped by the unpredictability of humans. How fitting that the Age of Fire was founded by beings called gods, only so that the weaker race could either overthrow them or destroy what they battled to build with blood and sweat.

He had attempted to turn the gears of fate, however. What everlasting dragon would he be if he allowed this new disparity to dissolve what he had personally slogged for ten times more than the gods themselves? And so, Seath had set aside his tinkering with the remaining scales of his fallen brethren, and some from his pathetic daughter, and worked to rid Lordran of the coming undead. Yet… in all his scheming, his plans to deviate the impact of the scourge of humanity had been in vain.

Perhaps his determination not to be disturbed had worked in his favor though, for why else would the Dark Sun himself seek his aide to convolute this tricky rumor going about? He had assisted all the same, whether he cared or not – his mind was already far from his brethren anyway.

After he had made plans with the youngest, and yet the strongest spawn of Gwyn, he had returned to his manor, locked himself inside his chamber and doubled his efforts to gain but a sliver of that which he had been born without, immortality.

And after countless failures… he had found a solution.

It was not foolproof, he agreed, and it was volatile should it be left unattended to. However, with this new invention he could see to it that he managed to squeeze the globe dry of all the knowledge it possessed in the current age… and all the valuable information it would most certainly hold in the _next_ age; his third lifetime.

Nevertheless, recent events had seemed to put a dampener on his future plans. Things like the frequency in which his loyal Channeler's were diminishing in number, the loss of reconnaissance from more than one of his sentries posted in various strategic positions within the kingdom; and the most prevalent disturbance of a supposedly deceased Archbishop in his dungeon.

He may have been the same man which he had framed with false evidence over paltry matters, but he was less of a challenge now that he had turned undead. Granted, he was basically immortal as well just so long as he held a sliver of sanity, but he had been less of a trifle for Seath to deal with. And then… his greatest failure had walked into his hallowed hall dressed as a servant of that Witch whilst cradling an absurdly inane mask against her face that reminded him of two scents he hated with a passion: the magic of the Darkmoon god and the aroma of the sacred undead.

From the echolocation he was able to channel via the minerals that were now a part of him, he had given a second thought as to how she was the size of an average human, but his rage and interest regarding how she escaped the painter's cell and what she was doing here had been more urgent at the time.

Now, Seath knew far better than anyone else that he was not the same dragon that had made a name for himself after selling out his detestable race. For all his knowledge, it was quite hilarious to him that the very things he sought after had made him quite insane. However, he embraced it with open arms. He had achieved a scrap of his original objective, nothing else really mattered to him so long as he was allowed to continue his work hoarded up in his castle. And that was why he had deemed it necessary to experiment on his own flesh and blood for a second time.

He didn't care that she was a part of him. In fact, from his maniacal point of view, everything she was belonged to him since she was a _part_ of him. Whether he wanted her dead of maimed was no business of hers just so long as she obeyed like the good failed test subject she was. She would be sturdier than the maidens of Gwynevere he had previously used anyway, so if she did get hurt it would be a miniscule thing. She _was_ half dragon and half goddess after all.

And yet… although fate had been rather kind to him from his inception, yet _another_ variable had arrived to delay his plans of seeking further information.

This time, however, that delay had not been in the form of an event. Rather… it had come to him as the source of the curse he had opted to avoid fervently.

Yes, that was right. Even though he had done his best to prevent any encounter with it at all, the plague of humanity and the world had walked through his fog door as the pinnacle of the very word curse.

So, Seath the Scaleless cocked his head as the Chosen Undead sauntered into his domain, prepared for a fight.

The only thought that went through the dragon's head at the time, was how badly he wanted to kill Gwyn for giving him a shard of his powerful yet bothersome soul.

* * *

**Woo, that was quite enjoyable. Towards the final 4, 000 words I was really in the zone. Also, I actually didn't plan for a monologue for Seath. Either way, hope you all enjoyed this chapter.**

**Now… let me explain a few things.**

**Ze Explanation: **

1\. **Argon's flashback – So, do you all recall the a/u I wrote out during the Gwyndolin battle? I stated that even though Argon does not support any gods or possess a covenant, his faith stat is still pretty high. I think I messed up by saying something about faith and intelligence when the correct answer was attunement or something like that. Anyways, his faith stat is quite high for someone who finds all gods as sinners. The reason is due to the encounter he has with his mother, Eliana. Whilst she gave him an explanation as to the system of punishment and reward of 'God', the ideal was something he latched onto due to many reasons (the comfort of someone that contrasts with all the torture Stein has dished out, the fact that someone was actually kind to him for once, the warmth of a mothers love – although he doesn't know who she is, the desperation he sought to understand why he's going through such turmoil, the question of who god really is… you can choose whichever seems more fitting) . Now, here's the funny part; even though Argon (in Lithecore mode) seeks to destroy all deities, in truth he actually believes that there IS a god out there and he (the aloof and jolly him) hangs onto that sliver of belief sub-consciously. The flashback of his mother just reaffirmed his belief, even if he doesn't talk about it much.**

2\. **Argon's real name – Okay, since Eliana is a priestess of a church (one that worships Christ), I thought that she would want to give her son something biblical as well (since she practically missed baptizing him as a babe). If you note the flashbacks and references to Argon's homeland well, you'd have guessed that he's from somewhere near Carim. Now, I did some research and although I didn't find that much, my opinion is that Carim is like Europe IRL (meaning In Real Life, and not some other weird abbreviation your overly creative mind comes up with – not that it's a bad thing though). So, I gave Argon's mom a European name, Eliana – which means 'God has answered'. Note the biblical reference. As for Argon, he was given the name Mikel – which means 'who is like God'. Again, its biblical, it's used to emphasize his relation to a religion he feigns ignorance toward. So, if you were ever wondering where Argon comes from, you now know it's in the same region as Carim. Congrats for coming this far with me.**

3\. **Argon's mask – I mentioned that Argon's rage and emotions when he went abyssal calmed down after he left the Throne Room. This was because of Gwyndolin. The kiss he placed on Argon's innocuous little piece of porcelain was also laced with a small amount of his magic. I had hoped to explain that after Priscilla put it on but Seath ended up hinting toward it instead. So, yes, when our hero (at this point I think he's more of an anti-hero but whatev's) wears his trademark head covering his violent tendencies are significantly decreased, although it still bubbles on the surface of his mind. When he was knocked back by the crystal golem earlier on, that nature of his was allowed to roam free, thus the sudden explosion of abyssal energy from his right side. You will be glad to note that this fickle state of being is not permanent (else the arc would never end) but just until him and Priscilla reunite. If you read carefully, you'll see that after Argon madly slaughters the Channeler's, he 'wakes up' terrified of the scene. This was the waning influence the abyssal/Lithecore side has over him. Oh, yes, the mask also possesses some initial magic within it (not from Gwyndolin) that allows the user to wear it without the need for clips and bands that fit against the head. That magic was how Priscilla was able to wear it. I've always wondered how the hell people in anime and various movies wear masks like that without a band or string to wrap around their heads so that it doesn't fall off. Whilst the answer could be that the object is custom made to fit to their faces (take Phantom of the Opera for example. Gerald Butler's mask was made from clay molded against his right cheek); the solution isn't very satisfying. So, I made up this tidbit. It's a silly thing to worry about, I know, but I couldn't help but think about it.**

* * *

**Onto other matters, some of you might be wondering how Eliana has a son when a priestess (or nun) is meant to remain a virgin. Good question, I'll get to that in the next chapter.**

**Aside from Argon's hazy past, I did my best to make the chapter contain more actual events and happenings than usual. Hope you all enjoyed that.**

**As for the fight scenes and the stealth run they did, I incorporated a few things from my own method of playing the game. Aural decoy is something I used frequently when playing the game at first. It helped a bunch in the catacombs when I needed to get stuff and run, plus it aided me Seath's Archives when I was out of Estus and needed to reach a bonfire fast.**

**Nowadays, I'm always equipping the sleeping dragon crest ring and/or the wolf ring. If I have a chance not to be noticed by enemies, I'll take that route and backstab whoever I can. Guess my time playing Assassin's Creed rubbed off on me a bit.**

**Ah! To recap from the previous chapter, I did say that I had a surprise for all of you. That surprise is a new fic (a set of one-shots to be exact that will in no way derail me from finishing this fic) that is comprised of funny encounters of various Chosen Undead I've created to poke fun at the Dark Souls universe. It will include rants at game mechanics, bosses, glitches and just random funny stuff you run into when playing Dark Souls. If you have any funny encounters you'd like to see written into one of these one-shots, please pm me- oh, crap, the pm-system doesn't work.**

**Okay, please leave a review about it and I'll write it out when I can. Hopefully, I can make it as funny as possible. As for that other fic I recently posted about Priscilla and the Chosen Undead (not Argon this time), I'm still doing that when I have the time. I'll reiterate; if you have any pairings from DS 1 you want me to do (besides yaoi) please state it via review and I'll get to work drafting it where I can and publishing it later.**

**If you will excuse me, I have a text on Sustainability and Greed to study. Have a jolly day. Hopefully when I type out my praise the sun emoji at the end of this a/u it won't crop out the right bracket like it did my bloody ampersand whenever I post the chapter. Don't shout at me if it does. Down with the bloody big head. Peace.**

\\[T/


	24. Chapter 24

**_-five… six… seven…_ **

**_Are you playing hide and seek with someone?_**

**_-no._ **

**Then why are you counting?**

**_-just recalling how long it's been since we started this fanfiction._ **

**Ooh, I know that train of thought well. Eight months huh?**

**_-well, technically its eight months and a few days but I'm inclined not to give a damn this time._ **

**Mm-hmm, I agree. But the ones we should be thanking are the people reading this. Thanks a lot for supporting us so far, I know we've barely reached the half-way mark but thank you all the same.**

**_-there's also something else that's been weighing heavily on my imaginary mind._ **

**Oh? Please do go on.**

**_-why do you never title the chapters published after it has been written? I know it's not that you can't think of one._ **

**Ah, yes… that. You see, I am a man of many, many words-**

**-_the fact that you said many twice proves it._ **

**Thank you. Now, I would love to add a title for each chapter, I really would.**

**_-but?_ **

**But the bloody character limit is too short! I mean, come on, I wasn't able to publish the original title of my spin-off because it was too long, I can't input the carefully thought out chapter titles of many of the other fic's I've written and to top it all off, I can't even enter the name of the Arc's because, yet again, the character limit is too SMALL! So what if I want to enter a title that says: "I couldn't think up a proper name for this one-shot so I gave it this random statement thinking it would convince you to read it because I want someone else's opinion"? I know I could always put that in the description of the story but it would bypass the original goal here!**

**_-I see, it was a completely stupid question to begin with. I'm sorry for asking._ **

**Now, now, it's not you that needs to apologise, it's the bloody site's admins and their lack of foresight that do.**

**_-firstly, I was saying sorry to the readers that were forced to listen to your idiotic reasoning. Secondly, do not insult the admins since you are also in the same line of work, thus you are just insulting yourself. And third, if it really bothers you that much then find another site to publish your work that does allow for a greater character space for you to enter your moronic chapter titles._ **

**…**

**_-why are you so silent?_ **

**You're me, I know that for certain but… you're really mean.**

**_-I'm not going to take you seriously when you consciously realise that you're writing a fictional conversation between two strands of thought called your own mind. And the fact that you are writing this means that you are being mean to yourself, which therefore states that you are either mentally unstable, plainly stupid or just intensely masochistic._ **

**Again, you are _really_ mean.**

**_-who told you to use italics when you speak? That's my right since I'm your inner thoughts speaking._ **

**Now you want to govern how I write?!**

**_-honestly, I don't want anything to do with you but since you're purposefully making it seem like I am then I'm just going to play along with it so that you can shut up and start the damn story already._ **

**Bloody hell, you yandere, just allow me to vent in peace!**

**-_being a yandere means that I show my affection towards people in displays of violence or with the intent to hurt. I have done nothing of the sort besides verbally abuse you-_ **

**Ah ha! So you DO admit it!**

**_-when you write out an inane dialogue of me doing so. The only times I've 'hurt' you is when you were either bordering on the line of perversion or just plainly annoying me._ **

**I was not acting pervy, you twisted the truth to make me look like I was! Just because I call out things that ARE for pervs doesn't mean I am acting like one myself! And besides that, you have a knack of hitting me in almost every a/u I post!**

**_-that's because I'm annoyed by you every time you're allowed to write out these dumb a/u's meant to serve as skits._ **

**The nerve! (*clicks tongue)**

**_-and yet you still haven't stopped posting a/u's._ **

**Because I like them you verbally abusive part of me!**

**-_don't raise your voice in front of the readers (*smacks Mihairu7)_ **

**Yeeouch! Bugger this, on with ze goddamn story!**

* * *

From garrison to reconnaissance scout, from a loyal knight to a burned body of sentient metal, and from the Lord of Sunlight's lap dog to the Lord of the Dark Sun's division of espionage. How fitting that he was to be passed from one member of an accursed bloodline to the next.

Although, for all his hate towards Gwyn, he reaffirmed that the last born was a different story entirely. Gwyndolin might have still gown up with his father's arrogance and pride at face value, but he was less of an autocrat towards his subordinates and more of an instructor when situations needed to be dealt with fast.

That being said, he was in no way saying that he was the Darkmoon's subordinate, he wasn't anyone's subordinate – just a lonely Black Knight. Gwyndolin had been as wise as he had hoped, taking in his sudden appearance and piecing the puzzle together as easily as pulling back the drawstring of his bow. It hadn't taken long for the god to make a decision before asking him to tail the Chosen Undead.

That was one thing he had always admired about the son of Gwyn, he never demanded something of those he had no direct control over. It was honestly a shame that brainless sister of his had been made to rule by their father's side instead of him; perhaps then many things would have been different in the days of old, including the fall of Lordran itself.

Alas, the Black Knight shut his mind off from such thoughts. His time of conjuring alternatives for the monarchy with what little but significant wisdom he possessed had long expired. Right now, the only reason he had come back to this accursed city and agreed to follow the request of Gwyndolin was because he was drawn to his charge.

And it wasn't due to any feelings of ill intent. He may be spectre in armour but he was still partly Silver Knight in soul, thus emotions of ordinary beings didn't exist within him, besides his hate for Gwyn, curiosity for this corroding world and wanderlust for the unknown.

Said wanderlust was directed toward the Chosen Undead, for reasons even he himself could not hope to fathom. Perhaps the undead possessed some of the answers he was searching for? Or maybe by observing him and his party, the Knight would gain a sliver of understanding as to why only he was granted this third opportunity in life after living through two uneventful lifetimes? He didn't know for certain as he stood in the clearing the masked one and the princess had vacated, scanning the mass of broken crystal and beheaded mages of the dragon.

From what menial information he had gathered from the previous night, he was trailing two of his charges whilst they trailed after their runaway comrade. The ex-Archbishop had always been soft at heart when it came to those he pretended not to care for, he knew so from the many times the armoured man had led his followers out of harm's way in the old days single-handedly.

The Black Knight surveyed one of the astrology tools nearby with its metal warped by something thicker than a blade and heavier than an average person in silence before staring at the many bookcases decorated with more splintered wood than there was reading material.

Havel probably thought it would be best to handle the Duke himself rather than leave it to the Chosen Undead and the paledrake's own daughter – two beings that better fit the criteria to battle against an everlasting dragon that was as insane as he was wise and powerful. Although, he couldn't discredit the man of impregnable rock entirely. After all, one of the main reasons Havel had abandoned his friends was due to his vendetta against Seath.

Whilst one had spent eons cooped up in their castle, absorbing knowledge and magic like a sponge; the other had suffered near an eternity warring against themselves in order to stay alive, in order to stay sane – a suffering the Black Knight knew all too well.

On the other hand, maybe the Bishop was fearful. Not of the traitorous lizard but of his companions. It had been a _very_ long time, but the Black Knight still remembered the look on Gwyn's best friends face when they had found the bodies of the maidens Havel had made a mistake of letting go when the time came and passed. He had watched as the ideal of faith and strength of the Church drowned his sorrows in tears, sleepless nights and malicious thoughts whilst those that knew the truth allowed him to seep in his resentment – content to allow him to fester such hatred in his ignorance of his veracity.

The Black Knight tilted his helm a smidge. He had found another reason to despise his former king. Whilst the Sunbringer had been made out to appear oblivious to the cruel experimentation of his Duke before he had made the decision to sacrifice himself to the Flame, there was no possible way everyone in the kingdom believed him. That was simply because of the fact that before Gwyn was a god, he was a monarch; and you would be a fool to assume a monarch was to be trusted on any terms. Thus, one of the reasons this deep-seated hatred of Havel's was at such a peak was purely Gwyn's fault.

But then again, the Black Knight thought, surely the king shouldn't take _all_ the blame. After all, there were still advisors to the Throne to consider, servants that dabbled in gossip but dared not to back up the Archbishop's statement for their cowardice was stronger than the bones in their spines. And, of course, there were the very Knight's themselves… even himself, all that time ago.

And one of them could have said something, said _anything_ to support the voice of Lordran, prevent his exile, expose the truth to him so that he would do what was necessary in a land that was nearing extinction, but none had. Therefore, they were all to blame. The advisors, the captains, the servants, even the loyal Knights of Gwyn. They had all allowed a righteous man to fall into the very thing that makes him a danger to his enemies. The Duke had shipped his conflict off to a faraway location thinking it would force the Bishop to give up on his futile revenge. But instead it only brewed out the worst in the man, turning his hate into controlled rage, his bloodlust into a weapon and his determination into prophecy. For when you strike down a wise man, he rises again in strength.

The clattering of the Knight's platemail echoed into the next room as he walked on steadily, taking in every minute detail. Speaking of bloodlust, the undead he was meant to be shadowing had allowed his to wreak havoc. The Knight kicked the corpse of a Channeler and watched in mild interest as what entrails it still retained oozed over its armour and onto the marble floor. He knew the goddess wasn't capable of such ferocity despite her nature as a walking, breathing god killer, so the only other conclusion would have to be her mentally unstable partner.

He was almost the personification of true wrath, possibly comparable with the deadly sin itself. And whilst his ideals had seemed laughable yet shockingly understandable, that wrath had almost allowed him to kill Gwyndolin in cold blood. How could the Knight not respect such fanatical perceptions? A world without gods _did_ sound like something up his alley, after all.

However, such power was crude, unpredictable and thus untrustworthy. It held no thought for the consequences of one's actions, just an obsession for engaging in the act itself. Under dire circumstances, it may be a trump card for those that required it, but otherwise… it was nothing more than a recipe for loss and regret. And that why it intrigued the Black Knight that his charge was able to hold it back for so long after abandoning restraint not even a full day ago.

He understood what drove this primal instinct to kill, he was basically the calmer version of it. Yet it felt so _different_ observing it pulsate in the body of another. Perhaps it was due to the masked undead possessing the blight of the Abyss, or maybe it was something deeper than a bothersome scourge? Again, he did not know. What he did know, was that this untameable ferocity seemed almost in sync with the undeads movements, albeit fleetingly – as if the majority of that consuming flame of ruin that was originally there had been… torn away. Either way, he still found it odd that such rage made him cannibalistic as well. What sort of twisted righteousness even provided an outlet for such animalistic tendencies?

His thoughts left him again as he came upon the lift mechanism. This would be a direct route to the topmost floors of the Archive. He had never travelled further than the first few floors of the Duke's castle in the past, there was just no need to venture any further when his directives then had simply been to obey. Now, after gaining an abundance of freedom of both will and thought, he wanted nothing more than to raid every shelf of its knowledge and pillage the floors for the secrets it hid in the mouths of Mimics.

Imagining himself grunting, the Black Knight outstretched a gauntlet and pulled down the lever with ease. The teeth of the gears meshed and the pulleys and strands of forged metal and oil worked in tandem as the lift began to lower to his level. As he waited, he found himself sightlessly staring at something that glinted wickedly back at him in the soft glow of the wing he stood in.

Without hesitation, he approached it as the lift landed against the platform with a soft hiss before the clamps and gears locked it into place. The Black Knight placed a hand against his hip where an elegant straight sword lay inside its silver sheath.

Before he had left Gwyn's castle – now inherited by Gwyndolin – he had met an unfortunate accident whereby his pillaged black knight sword had broken in two, curtesy of a Silver Knight's great bow. From that point onward he had been forced to use the thin and light weaponry of his past, which personally did not feel comfortable to him for many reasons; from the thought that he felt like an obedient dog again to the realisation that as a Black Knight he was more suited for larger weaponry.

That being said, his charge had left him a gift when he had gone insane again. And by gift, he meant the beautiful greataxe currently imbedded into a fallen Channeler's cranium. It was covered in blood from the shaft to the carvings in the blade head itself, but that wasn't really problem. When he fought, it was usually messier anyways.

With a boot against the chest of the corpse, the Black Knight wrenched out the axe with a loud crunch of bone, sending even more blood spilling onto the floor and his armour, before placing it against his shoulder and revelling in the weight as he paced back towards the opened doors of the lift. At last, he was partly whole again.

* * *

Seath was as infuriating as the mumbling merchant back in Sen's Fortress that could barely give proper directions. He had done nothing but sit or stand – he didn't know since the ugly mass of red and white flesh seemed to _possess_ no lower limbs – and fire off mouthfuls of cold crystal to impale him from the ground upwards. Each time he had been struck by those transparent stalagmites, he had felt both the effects of an annoying curse begin to bleed into his skin as well as a lot of his own blood begin to seep _out_ of his body.

Now, he wasn't complaining about the pain. It was actually quite _exquisite_. What he was complaining about was the fact that this naked lizard of titanic proportions seemed incapable of attaining damage – or to put it simply, he just downright _refused_ to sustain it.

Blow after blow, fireball after fireball, and dragonslayer arrow after dragonslayer arrow; yet the paledrake just waited there before him with that blind and blank stare as if he were getting _bored_ of his presence there within his study.

That pissed the Argon off. _He_ was meant to be the bored one, not some moronic mass of slithering frustration.

But what had perked the Chosen Undead up once he had entered the Duke's hallowed chamber was the sight of one unconscious crossbreed, still currently encased within a cage of crystal, wrapped around a massive, fleshy tail that looked more like some pale octopuses tentacle.

He had been wondering where she had run off to after their brief separation, eager to allow himself to finally administer judgement upon her blasphemous existence now that his mask had been removed. How odd that something meant to shield his face from his foes would end up possessing a dampener for his insatiable need of carnage.

In truth, he had been confused when it came to her. Yes, she was his comrade, his partner like the armoured oaf and a member of his party. She had done much to help him where she thought he needed it and he had been grateful for the aid – even if he kept quiet about the fact that he would have been just fine on his own. However, her deeds did not absolve her of her inherited flaw: she was still divinity. The dragon part, he was happy with excusing. For one, the Everlasting Dragons were neutral parties through it all. Sure, humanity and other sentient life would never have been possible unless the false gods had been born, but the winged lizards did not declare themselves superior over other races like these pathetic forms of flesh and blood had, therefore, he was content to let that part of her be.

On the contrary, she carried the blood of Gwyn in her veins, passed down by the faux serenity of the Queen of Sunlight herself. And because the wielder of the Lifehunt had those ties… she needed to die.

Indeed, her innocence was absolute, he didn't need to be insane to see that. But even if _she_ was pure, her blood was not. She still needed to die. He still wanted to kill her. Whether his calm and ignorant side held nonsensical feelings toward her or not, he would make sure he killed her. Now that he was in his original mindset, who was there to really stop him?

Argon grinned madly at the thought as he ducked a wild swipe from one of his foe's enormous claws.

But _first_ he needed to acquire her father's soul.

* * *

The Chosen Undead.

Honestly, it had not lived up to his expectations in the slightest. Then again, could _anything_ live up to his expectations at this point in time? Eons had passed and he had found his first visitor in nearly eternity and yet his blind eyes barely registered anything noticeable about the small change in scenario.

He knew this rancid being would eventually reach his study now that it had already infiltrated his castle, however he was curious as to what exact relationship the thing had with his sad excuse for a daughter.

After its eyes had landed on her, its ferocity had intensified, tactics becoming more complex. Seath pondered on the fact that perhaps the undead garnered feelings of romance toward her, a thought that made him sick to his core. Before he was a dragon, he was a being of discovery and evolution, thus romance and companionship was useless to him when the only thing was certain in this world was time and mortality – the only two things he feared in this life.

The day he had bedded Gwynevere had been his greatest error. No matter what the foolhardy servants and fledgling scholars of his might had said with their lecherous gazes, matrimony was nothing but an unbreakable shackle to one's lifetime. He believed this even _after_ his ancient seed had birthed his daughter, a hybrid with the endless potential to slay every god in existence.

However, when Seath focused his senses more intently upon his feeble foe, he felt something more akin to rage and excitement than love. He had smelt the corruption of the Abyss from a mile away and it had made him seethe in anger.

Artorias' destiny had been to purge that scourge or ensure it died with him, two things he obviously failed at. The reason he despised such a dark power was not due to a fear or wariness of it, but an intense annoyance toward the repercussions it could hold over him and his research.

Since it was created by the ill deeds and perceptions of Man, something the paledrake agreed he should have purged long ago when that putrid Pygmy had scraped out that vestige of the Dark Soul; it was as elusive as the very race that had now outgrown the gods themselves. As such, it possessed the power to erode his research, cripple his work and eradicate all he had taken the painstakingly long time to build from the sandy floor upwards. _That_ would be a problem. Which was why he intended to destroy this foolish champion of humanity… or perhaps capture it for study. Whether the Flame died out from the undeads inability to link it again was of no consequence. Now that he had finally attained his own immortality what did the end of the world matter to him anymore?

The Undead was indeed a curious one. Rising back up again after more than more curse had afflicted its body to the point of paralysis even after resurrection. Perhaps it was the Abyss absorbing the status affects of his crystal breath, or maybe the unwavering beast was just stubborn to yield; yet again, he did not know. What he did comprehend about this inane scuffle was that it was cutting into his time to work, craft, mutilate and invent. He had just captured something close to the equivalent of a maiden, after all. There was no way he intended to delay his eager mind from toying with it – not even if it were his own flesh and blood.

So, with much less than a dismissive exhale through his large nostrils, Seath punched a fist into the hard floor, shattering the thick membrane of quartz as if he were cracking the icy surface of a lake. The shockwave his attack carried with it sent chunks and shards flying in every direction, momentarily blinding the Chosen Undead and causing him to shield his face.

The dragon chuckled darkly. It was a shame people were so pathetically predictable nowadays.

He breathed in deeply, light blue and white light circling his broad chest before the powerful tendrils of his magic crept up his throat.

He was foolish to waste time pondering on this diseased wretch when it was so clear that he would be the victor of this fight. His foe would either run out of blood or magic, whichever the preferred most. Since he was a being of science, he saw no point in waiting until its tank emptied or the Abyssal aura overtook it – which would either turn it into an actual beast or just prematurely kill it… parentally.

Besides, with the technical _lord_ of the undead trapped within his dungeon, that would make it _thee_ equally immortal subjects for him to test until the supposed end of the world occurred. And even if it did, at least he would be fine. In the end, all that mattered was that he was able to continue his work. Continue it until his mind literally broke from too much knowledge. Oh, how joyful a death like that sounded indeed.

* * *

Whilst Seath was content with deadpan expressions, Argon was busy trying to breath normally after one of those pretty rocks had shred his left lung to pieces. The pain that bloomed within him as blood poured out of his nose, mouth and groin had been euphoric. And yet… he simultaneously wanted to laugh at how absurd it all was.

He meant he was undead, for whatever blasphemous gods sake. What need was there for his lungs anymore, or his beating heart? It was odd that his bladder still managed to work despite the fact that he barely drank anything on most days besides his Estus.

As he was sent hurtling back for the umpteenth time, he wondered if the reason his bladder needed to spontaneously work was due to the very flask he had shattered not long ago? What if by being undead, a vessel for basically anything, his cells, blood and internal curse known as the Darksign was making his body unconsciously convert the liquid flames into well… normal liquid?

After all, despite what people said and observed, there was no real way undead could drink actual fire, no matter how diluted it was by the Firekeepers of Lordran. Because when you really looked at it, only the remaining survivors of Izalith could consumed fire in its purest form, they were born for just that purpose, after all.

However, he had to cut his musings short by the blind attack of his scaleless foe. He had already felt the power behind Seath's impressive arms – or were they actually front legs – and didn't need to be told twice that he should keep his distance. However, this attack seemed sloppy, even for someone who relied on sound and scent to pinpoint his targets location.

Argon lifted his arm to block the incoming shards of sharp rock from piercing his eyes and forehead as the fist burrowed into the floor with as much force as an Asylum Demon planting its ass on top of your miniature head. Seriously, that had been a gross experience he never wanted to go through for a second time – because _damn_! That orifice had stank.

It was only after he had centred his balance that he realised it was all a ruse.

The sound of rapidly expanding mass of energy had resounded in his ears as clear as the shattered crystal, but what had made his eyes widen in maddened shock had been the fact that his body was too slow to react to it after losing so much blood.

It happened in slow motion too. One moment he was staring straight ahead, waiting for the particles of shattered gemstone to dissipate before he had seen Seath. He was like some glowing lizard, much like the titanite ones he took the pleasure in impaling on his blade whenever they came round. His open maw had showed bright pink, raw and slick flesh, slowly lighting up as a torrent of magical energy and crystalline fragments were forcefully merged together.

It was in that moment that Argon became aware of the uncomfortable itch on the underneath of his right foot.

And then he was torn apart. Literally. Seath's crystal breath had shot forward like a massive spear thrown by some leviathan half the world away. The burn of the paledrake's magic along with the natural cold of the shiny rock struck his nerves with such force that his body went into temporary shock. The crystals themselves only materialised into solid spears when they had touched his skin, only to tear him open like some angry child does with an old, worn doll.

He couldn't even hear himself gasp out as his head, chest, and limbs were simultaneously impaled, incinerated and torn asunder. Although, before he felt his consciousness slip away again, he was reminded of a similar attack used by a very familiar and very adorable crossbreed.

* * *

_"I am sorry but I don't comprehend what you're attempting to relay to me."_

_"You don't comprehend or are you just hard of hearing?"_

_"What was that, Lithecore Commander?"_

_"So, you **are** hard of hearing," Argon said with a smirk as he walked away from Covance and down the smooth steps of the quiet street. "But for the sake of your dwindled hearing, I'll say it again: the Lithecore… are **dead**."_

_"Dead?" Covance breathed; shock evident on his face. It was impossible to fathom, and yet the head of their unknown and deadly organization was before him to tell the tale. He knew the Commander of this trained league of assassin's and semi-nihilists was many things, including a heath risk to the old aide of the local Lord. A liar, however, was not one of them._

_"How did this occur?" Covance asked with a gulp of air. He was hyperventilating. How could he not when the strongest force in the world next to the armies of Lordran and Astora had been supposedly decimated within the space of a single night?_

_Argon just started back at him without saying a word. The malicious mask he wore that depicted a cruel smile offering no solace in this difficult moment._

_"Well? Are you just going to ignore me? What happened out there?!"_

_"Nothing… out of the ordinary," the Commander began, arms folded as he leaned against the stonework of a nearby building. "That is… until the slaughter began."_

_"Yes," the old hunchback sighed in mild relief. They were finally getting somewhere. Details of the battle were always to be delivered to him after Argon returned from another mission. Although he was always toyed with when the time came – Covance assumed it was some crass attempt at gaining whatever ounce of sick humour Argon desired – this time the boy seemed greatly subdued. And he had right to be, the entire Lithecore had been killed off._

_It didn't matter that he didn't see his subordinates as his equals, the fact that an armada of that many highly skilled and unstoppable soldiers had simply been erased from this world in a matter of hours would have been greatly disturbing to any Commander._

_"The intelligence gathered from our sources stated that it was a small but powerful company of soldiers from the West."_

_"At least your spies were correct on **that** point."_

_"What had they missed?"_

_"The fact that they were all Clerics."_

_Covance scratched his bald scalp. The Way of White had indeed gained knowledge of his Lord's less honourable activities as of late, thus they had begun to deploy more of their forces near the settlements outside of Carim in the hopes of finding the stronghold of the Lithecore. However, the hunchback as well as Argon knew for a fact that not even the best scrying spells conjured by the most reclusive mages would ever find it, and that was due to the fact that the Lithecore was apart of the very populace of **Carim** itself._

_That being said, even if a skilled group of hunters from that detestable covenant that warped Lloyds ways had found their base, there would be no possible eventuality for them to even thin a **tenth** of their forces. Which is why news that not one or two, but the entire **army** of Lithecore was purged was so shocking to discover._

_"Did they possess a Paladin in their ranks?"_

_Argon shook his head. "They were nothing difficult to face. The problem only arose when their dead began to **rise** back up again."_

_"I'm sorry?"_

_"Don't be, I don't care for the lives that were lost."_

_"What? No, what do you mean they rose up again?"_

_"It seems the Curse has found its way to Carim."_

_Covance's blood froze in his veins. They had all heard the stories, nightmarish tales told by the drifters and fugitives of other nations. They had all feared the oncoming disease that only seemed to affect the humans._

_A punishment from the gods, some had said as people who fell on the battlefield rose back up wrinkled and lustful for human flesh and destruction. Many a nation had already fallen and talk of this plague spreading had sparked massive panic on the King, so much so that he had declared this topic taboo to speak of._

_And now, it had arrived at their doorstep._

_Covance shivered in the chilly air of midnight. This was not a favourable outcome. He would need to alert Lord Stein, immediately._

_"Why did he name me Argon?"_

_The aide blinked, broken from his worries to stare back at the Lithecore Commander._

_"What?" He asked in confusion. This was a serious time for Stein's favourite to be behaving nonchalant._

_"Who ever chose the name "**Argon**" in the first place? Its utterly stupid."_

_"It was chosen because of its simplicity." Covance replied, his embarrassment evident by his reddening face._

_"Oh? Do go on."_

_"Lord Stein required a name for you that possessed no relation to anything or everything. A name that would encompass nothingness but would also plant fear into our adversaries."_

_"And Argon was the best he could come up with?"_

_"No, it was the best **I **could come up with."_

_Argon turned his head to the hunchback and stared for almost an eternity. The aide didn't need to peer behind his mask to imagine that pitiful stare he would always offer him whenever conversation like this occurred. It was sickening._

_"How did you come upon it?"_

_"Pardon?" Covance asked impatiently. They needed to report to their Lord and all the Commander could do was ask meaningless questions? _

_"How did you come by my name?"_

_The hunchback sighed and turned his body to face the soldier. The only way to get him to listen would be to answer him. It was a better time to just say it now rather than later, he supposed._

_"From the word 'jargon."_

_"I don't fully understand."_

_"I took the first letter out and thus we had found a name meaning nothing but would instil everything into this world." He stared at Argon with a grim look. "Happy now?"_

_"Amused is more like it."_

_"Good," Covance said as Argon began to walk past him. "Now, let us take our lea- ack!"_

_Argon held his blade firm as he twisted it into Covance's chest. The hunchback gurgled blood and feebly tried to pry the knife away before collapsing in a heap on the floor._

_"So, I was named after something nonsensical… how tasteless." He said as he wiped his blade on his torn tunic. "But I suppose its better than what the Lithecore's got for their troubles. After all…"_

_He lifted a hand to his mask as he spoke to the corpse at his feet, slowly undoing the bindings before the facial covering fell with a shatter of burnt porcelain. What was revealed beneath it was the leathery, wrinkled face of a newly turned undead._

_"Who would have imagined that from an entire army, only the Commander would be granted a second chance at life? A second chance at **revenge**?"_

_Argon chuckled to himself as he began walking again. Walking toward the destination the Lord's aide was to travel to: the home of Lord Stein._

* * *

The Chosen Undead groaned as consciousness forced his mind to burst back into reality. As soon as it did, his brain found it priority to absorb and speed through the first influx of information it gathered whilst his eyes were still very much squeezed shut.

Things like taste, hearing, scent and the sight of his eyelids shadowing his most likely weary eyes. He could also feel an oncoming headache, or perhaps it had already come? He couldn't say for sure, all he knew was that it felt like something was repeatedly smacking him upside the head. It almost felt like a human hand doing it too, one covered in a gauntlet of hard ston-

Wait a damn minute.

Argon snapped his eyes open to see the ever-frowning face of Havel standing above him, gloved fist raised an inch above his noggin to deliver another wake up shot.

"THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM YA CENTURY-OLD HACK?!"

"WHAT'S THAT SHRIMP?!" Havel exclaimed back at him before planting his fist into Argon's bare stomach.

The undead let out a whoop as the air left his lungs, and the Archbishop scoffed before turning his back to him.

"Ungrateful whippersnapper. Hurry up and put some clothes on."

The undead rose into a sitting position, a hand cradling his abdomen. That cheap shot had hit its mark good. He could barely feel his legs.

"Augh… nobody says whippersnapper anymore, gramps."

"Don't call me gramps! I ain't old yet." Havel shouted in reply before the sound of a loud hiss broke their conversation.

Both undead turned their gazes forward to see a serpentine guard staring back at them in annoyance. They turned to look at each other before staring back at the humanoid snake as it readjusted itself to rest comfortably against the steel bars of their cell. Argon frowned in confusion. They were in a cell?

He blinked for a moment and examined their surroundings, taking in darkened area covered by more lacquered wood and cold metal bars. It was only then that he noticed the bonfire next to him, and he instantly reached out a wrinkled hand to grasp the rejuvenating flames, sighing out in relief as it woke him up from his stupor.

"So, Seath got the better of you, I see." Havel mused as he watched Argon crush a humanity sprite in his palm before turning his half-hollow flesh into its original pale and muscled physique. "And you lost your mask…"

Argon turned to the ex-Bishop. He was giving him a look of worry, which in any normal scenario would have been quite alright if he were anyone but Havel.

"What happened out there?"

The undeads opened his mouth to speak but froze. After another moment of silence, he closed it and looked down at his legs, brows furrowed as his mind did its best to remember.

"As it thought," Havel sighed before taking something out from a large pouch and throwing it at his companion.

The dull glow of the empty Estus flask caught Argon's attention as he grasped it gently with both hands. He had broken his when in the Throne Room with Gwyndolin. Although he had made it an objective to obtain a new one, the opportunity hadn't presented itself to him since coming to the Archives. He looked back at the Archbishop as he stood, helmet resting against his waist.

"I didn't find one on you when you were thrown in the cell," was all he said before turning to pick up his Dragontooth and great shield resting against the wall. "Now that you're here, do me a favour and warp us out. I've been waiting for over four hours for you to get your ass here."

Argon blinked.

"What?"

"You heard me, so don't make me repeat myself." The grouchy undead narrowed his eyes at him.

"Wait, wait, wait… you mean you _knew_ I would die and get thrown in here with you?"

"What? You're telling me that you _didn't_?"

The Chosen Undead opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. He honestly didn't have a reply for that.

"Alright, fine." he grumbled and grabbed the hilt of the coiled sword impaling the bonfire. Havel came forward and rested a hand on his shoulder in preparation for their escape. If he could warp them to the first bonfire they had all found guarded by those armoured boars, they could traverse back to Seath's chambers. After going through a seemingly endless labyrinth, Havel had managed to get a proper sense of direction towards the paledrake's chamber and many other areas of the castle. And with Argon's smarts that he hoped would spontaneously activate upon listening to his plan, they could form a decent offensive that would possibly injure – if not kill – their scaleless target.

The two of them remained in their current pose for well over five minutes before Havel began to grow impatient again.

"What's taking so long? Did you forget how to use the Lordvessel or something?"

"I can't _forget_ how to use it if there is no _method_ given on _how_ to use it."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I can't warp here. Something seems to be blocking its powers."

"What?" Havel frowned.

"I can't warp here. Something seems to be blocking its pow-."

"I heard you the first time, dammit!" Argon chuckled at the armoured undead. Sometimes it was just so amusing to annoy the guy.

"Seems like we gotta bust out the old-fashioned way." Argon replied as he stood, dusted off his rear and pulled on a frontal covering of chainmail. He admitted that the sound and feel of the interlinking rings of steel wasn't as comfortable as most of the things he usually wore but it would be better to rip this piece of armour instead of the ones Borgus and Andre would charge him an arm and a leg for.

"Ah, I didn't even think of your set of skeleton keys!" the ex-Bishop cheered with glee.

"Pfft. None of my keys are gonna fit a lock this big, be serious." Argon waved him off and nodded towards the serpentine guard resting against their cell door. "But I bet he does."

Without waiting for Havel to reply, he gripped the handle of the coiled sword in the bonfire before jerking his entire body in the opposite direction. The ex-Archbishop yelled as ash and embers were thrown his way before gawking at the sight of Argon holding the very coiled sword itself in his right hand.

He didn't know whether he should be outraged or stunned to silence. Eventually, he ended up choosing the former.

"What in Lloyd's name are you doing?!"

"Cool your moss-covered titanite shard. I'm just gonna borrow it."

"Borrow it? That was our only way back here if we die!"

"I'm sure it'll be fine. That Brass Keeper will most likely divert our path to revive by her or something."

"How can you be so sure?" Havel spat.

"You think the bonfire's have a mind of their own to remember who rested where?" Argon raised an eyebrow at his companion, effectively shutting him up.

Satisfied with the response, the Chosen Undead happily marched forward before plunging the coiled blade through their guard's midsection. As the humanoid snake writhed in agony whilst the undead grabbed the key at its hip, Havel gawked at him for the second time. What was he thinking when he agreed to follow him to the Kiln? The Chosen Undead was a _maniac_.

Argon ripped the sword out with a few strong tugs before turning back to Havel with a grin on his blood-smeared face.

"Found us a way out."

The ex-Archbishop rolled his eyes as he put his helmet back on. If Seath didn't kill him before he was able to reach Gwyn, then it would be the idiot of a leader he had chosen to accompany that as unpredictable as he was a bonehead.

Nevertheless, he took a step forward after unlocking the cell door, intent on getting out of this annoying dungeon but stopped again when he heard Argon groan out in pain. Havel turned his head toward the undead to see him shirtless once again, rubbing the centre of his chest with a frown.

"What happened?" the Bishop asked with a raised eyebrow. Was it the Abyssal corruption acting up again? "And why are you shirtless again?"

Argon looked up at the man, a pout on his face.

"The chainmail ripped of a chunk of my chest hair."

Havel facepalmed. Scratch what he said about the Chosen Undead being a maniac. It was much simpler just to call him and idiot.

"Just put on some damn clothing please."

"Okay," the undead replied like a child before pulling on a cuirass with the coat of arms of Astora.

They exited their cell to scan over their surroundings. What greeted them back wasn't exactly a dungeon per se, but another part of the Archives flooded from the ceiling to the floor with more books. They stood on a large stairway that seemed to spiral all the way toward the ground floor if they were to travel right, and a short distance away to their left stood a ladder possibly leading toward the exit.

If Havel's memory served him correctly – which it always did – the old blueprints of the castle marked this area as the 'Forbidden Collection'. As to what that title was related to, he hadn't a clue; what he did know for sure was that the cells were originally meant to serve as locked vaults for important volumes and research not even Gwyn knew about. Then again, he doubted the fool knew _any_ of his Duke's plans in the first place, save for the one's the dragon would relay to him personally.

But after a drastic change in architecture had been done on the castle, it appeared this section had been left to rot if the stench of old blood and rust was anything to go on. From what he and the Chosen Undead could see, each cell seemed to contain a prisoner. Some dead, others alive and kicking; but most important to note was that most of them were the same crystal hollows they had killed during their time traversing the first few floors.

"I reckon they were disobedient." Havel grunted at Argon's statement. It seemed he was on the same page.

"Either way, they mean nothing to us."

"Then why are we still standing here?" Argon asked in confusion.

"You haven't noticed that we're a person short of our trio, have you?"

Argon's eyes widened. Of course… how could he had forgotten about Priscilla like that? He swerved his head back to their cell but found nothing there except the disturbed bonfire and serpentine guard staining the floor red.

"Don't let it get to you, Argon," Havel said as he shifted his shoulder guard. "considering what must have happened to you, it's no surprise you forgot."

The undead frowned again, even more perplexed than before. Considering what had happened to him? What exactly did the old man mean by that? And what did it have to do with Priscilla?

"As for why we're still here, I'm want to check if she's trapped in her like both of us." The Archbishop's eyes narrowed as he attempted to get a glimpse inside the cells further down the stairwell. He hated to admit it but even though he was now undead his eyesight was still worst than a blind man.

"Use these." Argon handed him a pair of binoculars as he walked down the steps, observing each cell they passed.

Havel took off his helm and dumped it into his bottomless box. It was pointless wearing it when he had to remove it to do something every few seconds. With a moment used to adjust the focus of the optical equipment, he peered through the glass and scanned over the lower floors Argon was walking on. It would do them well to keep a lookout whilst the other searched the place.

After a few minutes of quietly going through each cell on each level, the ex-Bishop saw Argon shake his head through the binoculars before he sighed and lowered his arms. So, she wasn't here. In truth, he had hoped that she would have been thrown into the same cell as the rest of them, being deemed as useless to Seath, but he was mistaken. In his haste to redeem himself and all those he had allowed to be imprisoned by the paledrake; he had allowed his worst fears to come to pass.

"She's not here," Argon said as he reached Havel's side, catching his breath after climbing up a seeming endless flight of stairs. "There's a bunch of these serpentine things on the last floor though."

The armoured undead turned his head toward him.

"They're huddled around another cell but they seem docile. I walked past one of them and all it did was whimper out."

"Whimper?"

"Yeah, as if it was in pain."

"Hmm," Havel stroked his beard in thought. The maidens that _had_ passed Seath's gruesome experiments were never seen again. Word was that they were taken away from Lordran, but he wasn't naïve enough to believe such a ruse. "What else did you find?"

"A platform above that cell. There was a ladder leading up to it but I didn't find anyone there."

"I see, then we should leave befor-"

A chorus of loud hissing interrupted him and the two undead turned to their left to see more serpentine guards sliding down the ladder with weapons drawn. The first three that landed immediately caught sight of their fallen brethren outside of Argon and Havel's cell before they stomped forward enraged. As they left the rusty ladder, three more slid down to join the first group, and then three more after that.

"Well shit." Argon said. Havel could only nod in reply as they were becoming more heavily outnumbered by the second.

This would be a _long_ fight before they reached Priscilla.

* * *

Man Serpent's. Yet another failed experiment of Seath's, and more troublesome to deal with when in groups of three and above. As far as the sentries and garrisons in the Archives, the Chosen Undead and his party had done a good job in drawing as much attention as they could as they slowly but surely thinned the ranks of the paledrake's forces. Now, all that was left for him to do was observe how the Archbishop and Chosen Undead escaped from their confinement before rushing to the aid of their dragon-tailed comrade.

Whilst she was still the fear and nightmare of all gods out there – something the Black Knight seemed to respect with great integrity about her – the crossbreed Priscilla was still in all right a princess, perhaps even the next Queen of Sunlight now that Gwynevere had fled. With that in mind, and considering the fact that she was still royalty, he found it disappointing that those two who knew full well the meaning of valour and knightly pride could allow the nobility of their party to be abducted so easily.

Of course, it was quite understandable how such a thing occurred. On one hand the ex-Bishop of the old Church had deemed it necessary to brave the now literally everlasting dragon on his own due to revenge, hate and more pride; whilst the undead of prophecy, the hero of this already dead kingdom was still internally battling with his own identity – so much so that he switched from one emotion to the next as if he were performing double roles in some elaborate and poorly-scripted play.

He had honestly been content just to watch how the legendary undead of ages shifted persona's when battling hordes of enemies and enduring difficult challenges, however, as the newly knighted and tasked warrior of no-one, he was inclined to assist his charge and his comrades so that they could, in the Darkmoon's words: "Get the damn job completed already".

And that was how he found himself severing yet another cobra head from its scaly, humanoid shoulders. Wait, he was actually aiming just below the hood of the Man Serpent minions. So, scratch that, he was severing their heads _and_ necks from their scaly and humanoid shoulders.

Funnily enough, although he didn't possess a nose he could still smell the pungent aroma of snake blood as it spurted onto his armour, coating the dark metal with a thick red sheen that would eventually get sticky. He didn't care, though. He had been through worse when he had fought in the battle of Izalith to ensure his previous King had made it to the surface after the Witch had turned herself into a blazing mass of roots and snares. Now _those_ newly formed demons had been formidable. Worthy of the title demonic, and their resilience to Lordrian steel blessed by holy smite had been impressive. He recalled the many he had slaughtered, beheaded and bathed in the fountain their blood sprayed over his once silver armour. Although their strength had been worthy, they hadn't stood a chance against him as he swept through the pursuing thirty like a swift arrow through the clear sky – and he hadn't been nearly as indominable as he was today.

That's why when the Black Knight found himself mowing down Man Serpent's, crystal hollows, one or two blue golems and a small cluster of Channeler's all simultaneously, he couldn't help but think about how he would have to place his deep thoughts and reservations for later. Sure, it wasn't as exciting as battle but could one really call _this_ butchering of forces enjoyable when the foes were so paltry? He thought not.

And all this, he reminded himself as he crushed the throat of another mage with his boot, was so that his charge – or charges since there were three of them – would have an easier time getting to the blind dragon of flesh and crystal before he used his daughter for one of his less than tasteless try-outs.

That being said, it would be odd if the Chosen Undead and Archbishop were to come upon this section of the castle and discover a mass of bodies not slain by themselves. The Black Knight raised his shield and a soul arrow burst off it harmlessly before he rammed it into the face of a leaping crystal hollow, shattering its head with the fast movement. He would need to find a way to dispose of the bodies once he was done here.

The sound of bare feet running alerted him to the next wave of on-coming adversaries and he twisted around to deliver a harsh slash with his greataxe that split a Man Serpent's head in two, sending even more blood and brain matter flying around. One of the remaining two human-like snakes lost their footing on the blood and fell to the floor with a hiss whilst the other leapt into the air – intending to impale him through the breastplate with his oversized greatsword.

The Knight would have scoffed his he had a mouth and calmly sidestepped the thrust. The human snake battled to regain its stance now that it had left itself open. It was at this time that he chose to two-hand his axe and lop off the creature's arm. For once he heard an unnatural scream and he delivered a strong kick to its chest, watching it writhe on the floor as it attempted to stem the bleeding from the clean cut.

The next thing the Black Knight felt was a blast of energy against his shoulder that made him take a step forward. He turned his helm to see the last remaining Channeler standing a few feet away from him. The mage was panting heavily under his ridiculous armour, his stomach nearly spilling out its innards from the swipe he had managed to avoid before it cut his entire body in half. His left hand gripped his trident with weakening fingers.

Well this was intriguing. The scholar of the Duke had fired off a heavier version of the original soul arrow whilst his powers had been increased by that absurd chant they all possessed, and all it was able to do was scuff his midnight platemail? Either they had been slacking off on their spellcraft whilst their master went insane in this study or he had gotten much, much stronger. Personally, he knew it was the later – probably due with all the souls he had gained after killing so many.

He decided to end the mage of his suffering and took a step forward. The action seemed to instil fear into the tall scholar as he retreated three steps backward. The Black Knight didn't ignored how amusing it looked as he crept forward, only to be delayed as a scaly hand wrapped itself around his right leg. He looked down to see the Man Serpent from before that had slipped lifting a crystal straight sword to hack at him from below. He intercepted the blue shard of rock with a swipe of his axe and the sword shattered into jagged pieces of glittering azure. The snake-man hissed at him in defiance and opened its jaws to bite him. When it shot its long neck forward, he buried the end of his shield into its throat.

The creature choked and tried to wriggle out of the dark metal pinning it to the floor, legs kicking out desperately but he didn't show a hint of remorse as he used the shaft of his axe like a hammer and knocked the opposite end of the shield.

The Channeler nearby groaned out with jumbled words, turning his visor away from the gruesome sight of the Black Knight's shield impaling the serpent man's throat all the way through. He pulled his arm out of the handle and continued his march before lowing into a small lunge and leaping forward.

The mage didn't have the time to scream before his head rolled from his shoulders. The Black Knight stilled for a second before yanking the axe from the cut it had made upon the marble floor. That made fifty-three.

The soft hiss and sound of shuffling guided his boots toward the surviving fifty-fourth target. Like a nightmarish spectre, he stood over the maimed Man Serpent currently trying to creep away from him on its back. He would have called it a pathetic sight but knew all too well what such grotesque images would do to the average being. And so, without a word – not that he could even utter a syllable – he stared at the creature as he raised his greataxe slowly, the blade-head still dripping with the blood of the thing's comrades. It hissed at him meekly before opening its mouth in what seemed like terror as the axe fell like a pendulum.

The ground beneath the serpentine beast's body cracked loudly as the blow found its mark, silencing the final reinforcement that would only hinder his charges before he retrieved his weapon and rested it against his back once more.

The scene around him was gory, enough to make any grown man sick with the blood staining the floor, walls and stairways leading to the makeshift dungeon. The bodies would rot if left unattended but he didn't really care. It wasn't his job to clean them up, just to make sure they didn't interfere with the order he would set so that his charges could finish this mission of proverbial suicide and give him the answers he desired with their actions.

The Black Knight walked back to his shield and tugged it out of the fallen snake-man's mouth before giving it a good shake to rid it of excess blood. Whilst it was Lordrian steel coated in the First Flame's shockwave, it would still be damaged like any type of weaponry if he allowed its condition to deteriorate. He placed the shield against its resting place behind him as he calmly walked up a flight of stairs.

His job was done here. Now, his respective charges needed to do theirs so that he could leave this annoying Archive. There was still much to do, and he was impatient in his contemplation. He needed to understand his reason for existing a third time, a reason for this gift called freedom. And the only one that could indirectly answer that was the Chosen Undead, the undead with the split-personality named Argon.

* * *

**Okay, make that two more chapters until this arc is officially over. I know, I promised two more and then we move on to Izalith and the Darkwraith movement. However, things in the real world have been keeping me _really_ busy lately – so much so that I haven't posted this chapter in almost a month!**

**I really am sorry but like I said I will not abandon this fic nor will I put it on hiatus. Its too damn interesting to do that and besides I'd be a real douche for doing so.**

**Hope you enjoyed this so far. I'm making the Black Knight have a bit more screen time so that I don't miss out on anything he's meant to experience and grow in. In other news, Oregairu and Re:zero have begun airing their second seasons and I'm as euphoric as Santana was when he made that song of the same title.**

**Please do read and review, have a smashing day and don't forget that love is war.**

**_-what does that have to do with your send off?_ **

**Nothing. I just wanted to say that.**

**_-I still don't see the rea-_ **

**OH LOVE ME, MISTER!**

**-_son… oh, I get it now._ **

**Sing it with me!**

**-_OH MISTER!_ **

**JISARA RERU HODO SETSUNAI**

**_-FUTARI DAKE NO ABUNAI GEMU_ **

**LOVE IS WAR!**

**_-LOVE IS WAR!_ **

**LOVE IS WAAARR!!!**


	25. Chapter 25

**He he he he he…. Hee hee… Ho ho**

**_-alright, we get it._ **

**Nope, you don't. Not at all.**

**_-okay, then TELL us readers and imaginary parties what is just SO funny to you._ **

**Have you tried using the text-to-speech function on the app?**

**_-oh…_ **

**Go on. You don't have to hold it in on my account.**

**_-hahahaha!_ **

**There you go. (*grins like an idiot)**

**_-that… is quite- haha – funny._ **

**I know right?! Seriously, listening to her say "you dipshit" in that mechanical British accent was just priceless!**

**_-for those readers that want further explanation, just go into any of the amusing dialogues written with the 'How To Git Gud, Well… Not Really' series and hit the icon that displays a headset. It is rather something._ **

**Onto a different note, I've noticed that I've been calling these skits we do "a/u's".**

**_-and so?_ **

**Was it not meant to be "a/n's" instead? Because after saying it for more than three chapters, I'm thoroughly confused.**

**_-well, I suppose they COULD be called a/u's since, in essence, this IS an alternative space you've created to explain/complain/rant/generally speak inanely about various topics._ **

**Whilst I'll ignore the last part, I guess you're right.**

**_-glad we agree on something._ **

**Right on! The last item on our agenda: this talk of communicating with the author of said a/u's, stories and madness.**

**_-about damn time. People were starting to get annoyed._ **

**As I've complained and COMPLAINED about many a time prior to this chapter, the pm system for this site is down. Whilst some messages go through for some people, it does NOT go through for me.**

**_-what terrible luck._ **

**So! I have just recently created a Reddit account to fix that issue-**

**\- _shout out to Grandpa Jesse for finally getting this idiot to do so, and to RavenSouls for explaining the DocX system. Although, between the two of us, he doesn't know HOW to use the DocX system._ **

**Oi! Don't expel my embarrassing moments.**

**_-honestly, by this point I thought you knew that the only reason I exist on this site is to embarrass you._ **

**A-Ah! Why you… little… Urgh.**

**_-please… continue with you're a/u._ **

**Oh, shut up.**

**_-(*illogical Mihair7 smirks)_ **

**Anyway, my name on Reddit is: KitsuneKimchi **

**You can just call me Kitsch on it for short.**

**_-again, nobody gives a continental._ **

**Again, shut up.**

**_-you DO realise what the word 'kitsch' means, right?_ **

**Yes… and I think it's a cool nickname.**

**_-…_ **

**What now?**

**_-how am I meant to be apart of a freak like you?_ **

**Normally. Now suck it up.**

**_-that's what she said._ **

**_Now, you're just doing that on purpose! _**

**\- _oh, lookie. He finally went coocoo for coco-pops._ **

**(*Sighs) I will also be divulging my external e-mail address to those that don't use Reddit. Although I don't like giving out personal info on any site, this is the singular exception since the account itself is one I only use for the odd online mobile game and such. In fact, if you'd indulge me, please contact me on e-mail if you can. It makes it easier since I'm always working.**

**You can e-mail: Kitsummer19 at gmail-dot-com**

**\- _what's with all the 'kits' in your usernames?_ **

**What's with you being such a douche to me all the time?**

**_-touché. On with ze story and all that._ **

* * *

Havel was a beast. He didn't say that because of that fugly beard he grew that looked like an ancient man's outgrown pubic hair – to which the ex-Bishop fit the criteria perfectly – but because his ferociousness on the battlefield was anything but sub-par.

After breaking out of their cell with coiled sword still in hand, they hadn't been given a chance to catch their breath. Argon didn't know how or when the other guards had caught notice of their escape but they had come in quite a hurry, stumbling over one another as they attempted to fillet them with those swords that overcompensated for too much. And now, after more than an hour had passed, they were _still_ fighting for their lives and extremely tired.

Well, the exhaustion was actually his fault. He had wanted to see what would happen if all those humanoid snake men chased after the two of them from the top of the stairway all the way to the foot of it. His thinking had been somewhere along the lines of: 'if we can tire them out, we can axe 'em in a jiffy'. Unfortunately, the only ones that were left panting after all that running had been himself and his enraged companion. How was he to know that a snake's stamina was higher than a undeads?

Despite their initial flop, however, the two of them had made quick work of the first fifty or so foes that had stampeded towards them like hungry hounds. In fact, the Chosen Undead feared that if they had to face any more then they might run the risk of flooding the open space they were currently defending.

What had been the most intriguing shock of their scuffle, though, was that the weeping monsters down below had aided them in their serpent infestation after he and climbed up the ladder to the platform above it and wound up some odd record player covered in snake-skin. The brass horn had filtered out this obnoxious blare that had sent the monsters below into a frenzy. Havel had shouted in joy when he saw that they had reinforcements whilst Argon was just glad that those banshee things were on their side. After witnessing one of them shoot out some black spike or blade from its mouth to decapitate a Man Serpent, he was humbled that he was standing above the carnage instead of in it.

But his armoured friend had been something else. He should have known that the ex-compatriot of Gwyn would have been as deadly on the field as old texts made him out to be but witnessing it first-hand had been something else as he sniped their foes with his bow. Even now, as the Chosen Undead impaled another snake-man through the head with a poison-tipped arrow, he had to admit that the annoying grandpa with him was badass.

He watched closely as the ex-Archbishop blocked a strike with his great shield, tightened his hold on his Dragontooth and swung forward. The foe in front of him didn't have the time to back away or block as the black weapon smashed its head into a bloody stain on the floor. But the attack didn't stop there, it actually flowed into a second powerful, ground-breaking blow as Havel twisted around before bringing that terrifying club down upon the foot of another Man Serpent. The humanoid in snake scales cried out in pain as its left leg was crushed flat, before its head was decapitated by those mysterious blades ejecting from the Pisaca's mouths.

The Bishop continued his assault as five more of the snake-men crowded him, aware that the more space he was given, the better chance he had at becoming unstoppable. The undead merely sniffed distastefully as he was pushed away from his reinforcements and toward a grave of rusted metal gears the height of cottages.

One by one, the Man Serpents' struck in a never-ending chain of attacks that reminded Argon of an endless loop. His heterochromatic eyes observed the scene intently as he watched his comrade twisted and turn like a spinning top, blocking and deflecting sword strike after sword strike. In all honesty, he thought about helping out but knew that if he did, he would probably also be struck by that now bloody Dragontooth of his just for fun; so the undead remained where he was and opted to bide his time kicking off the stragglers climbing up the ladder to his right.

* * *

At this moment, Havel truly hated Argon. He knew he had said it once before and a couple more times after that, but this time, he _really_ hated his idiotic companion with a passion.

Besides having to catch his breath from all that running they had done earlier – an activity that had taken more of a toll on him because of his armour – he was also annoyed that the fool had managed to allow himself to be killed and captured by Seath.

Of course, he knew it would have happened one way or another, whether the Chosen Undead had been in his right mind or not – the dragon was just that powerful now that he had actually managed to obtain that annoying crystal he had toppled countries for. Yet, at the same time, Havel was more angered with his own rashness. If he had not allowed his impatience – and his worry – to get the better of him, perhaps the three of them might have stood a better chance against the paledrake. Although such thinking was a pipedream, he was content to think of it as a possibility of their victory.

He grunted as one of the Man Serpent's slashed him across the back, its thick blade dragging the sharp edge of its silver against his platemail. He was about to spin round to plant his shield into the fool's face but had to block a strike that would have skewered through his shoulder and rendered his dominant arm useless.

Now that he had seen what that simple pole of clear mineral had done for the dragon, however, he knew the way to defeat him. Finding him again would prove to be mildly challenging due to how paranoid Seath naturally was, but if they could find him, then they would find that irritating mass of energy he would surely protect with his now immortal life. Even so, he was sure that with him, the idiot and their imprisoned crossbreed, they would succeed in beating the Duke.

With that reassurance in his head, Havel planted his shield into the ground with enough strength to crack the cobblestone below him, before drawing an old and dusty talisman from his hip. It had been a long, _long_ time since he had been forced to use this tactic, and he still hated any and all magic with a passion but he was beyond caring. He wouldn't have decided to learn these miracles if he had remained obtuse to the growing power gap between himself and his enemies anyways; times had changed after his exile. And honestly, he was just glad he was able to consult with _that_ god before even he had left for good. It was about time he tested whether he could still use the elements he despised, and his current foes would be the perfect target practice.

As the five reptilians crowded around him, he uttered a short breath of words, summoning the dormant power within him. He focussed on his rage, his wrath and the strength of his will before clasping his hand against the old material. A small orb of light appeared within his palm and he grunted as the potency of the Miracle threatened to rip his arms apart. Such magic was terrifying, especially ones that favoured the user's intellect over their faith. This was one of reasons he disliked magic, it was too volatile in the hands of greener scholars. One wrong move, a singular incorrect thought and even the most basic of spells could self-destruct, very much like this one.

"Scatter wretches!" Havel allowed the conjured force to take hold as his hand bolted away, unsealing the tiny orb at the end of his talisman. What followed was devastation itself.

* * *

"Ooh! Damn! Son of a- argh, what the… eeew." Argon grimaced. It was one thing to mutilate a foes body via explosion. It was another thing to do so with your bare hands – as he regretfully remembered himself doing not long ago. It was a completely _different_ matter when you peeled someone's flesh off like a banana before turning everything within a ten-metre radius of yourself into _rubble_.

The Archbishop kicked the head of a serpent man away as Argon slid down the rusted ladder, landing with a huff and looking at him as if Havel had told him where babies come from.

"What was _that_?!"

"A Miracle."

Argon scoffed before slapping his forehead. "Oh, pssht! Right, how can I be so dumb- I KNOW IT WAS A BLOODY MIRACLE!"

Havel poked a finger into his ear as he picked up his shield. "Then why ask?"

"There is no way a Miracle can do…" he looked around at the half-destroyed architecture and corpses that looked more akin to uncooked meatloaf. "That."

"Of course, it can. Gain enough knowledge as I have and you can do it too someday," Havel turned his head away from his comrade, "…maybe."

"Hey, I heard that!"

"Good, I was starting to worry you were losing your hearing."

The Chosen Undead groaned. It was just like the old man to behave… well, like an old man. He was honestly too shocked at what he had seen to create a comeback.

"If you two are quite done," Havel and Argon turned their gazes West, "could you please let me out of this cell?"

Both undead turned to one another before nodding and walking toward the voice. They tensed when passing the Banshee's that had returned to their alcove underneath the platform, however, met no response besides the same echoed whimpering.

It seemed the area these creatures stood in was a makeshift prison, if the bars behind them were any indication. The person who had called to them stood behind said bars of rusted metal and crystal. Unfortunately, the two men couldn't see the person's face. Although, that was probably due to the ridiculous hat he wore that was nearly a metre in diameter.

Argon sighed exasperated and Havel turned to him. He held a deadpan look on his face as he eyed the fellow still staring at them under that big hat of his.

"Logan, why am I not surprised?"

"Well, because you're quite smart. And smart people are never surprised."

Argon frowned. "There are so many things wrong with that line of thought."

"Wait a moment," Havel interrupted. "You mean to say that _this_ is Big Hat Logan, graduate of Vinheim's esteemed Academy?"

"Oh, so you know me?" Logan quirked up, leaning his face closer to the bars, his hat folding backwards. "For the immovable Havel to know of my achievements is quite an honour. But I must ask, how is it you are here? Last I heard, you died in some labyrinth."

"No, I don't know you. I know _of_ you." Havel replied and poked a thumb at Argon. "From what he tells me, you're quite the idiot." Logan's face fell at that. Argon, the Chosen Undead had made him out to be a fool in explanation? That wasn't what friends did at all. "And as you can see, I'm in perfectly good health."

"That pot-belly would say otherwise."

"You try living a few centuries and _not_ have your muscle mass deplete!" Havel raised a fist to his grinning companion. The sorcerer, meanwhile, simply placed a hand to chin in thought as he analysed the ex-Bishop.

"Anyways," Argon muttered as Havel walked away, "how did you end up imprisoned yet _again_?"

"Why, I was attempting to reach one of Seath's prized volumes on Crystal Release."

"Hm-hmm. Of course, you were." The undead sighed. "Did you at least tell Griggs where you were headed?"

The wizard opened his mouth to speak when Argon cut him off.

"I'll take that as a no then."

"You didn't allow me to say anything."

"Because I know your answer before you speak it."

"That's impossible, how could you-"

"Because I'm smart." Argon grinned. Logan stopped talking, it was clear he had lost this exchange of witty roulette.

"Fine, yes, I left him behind again." Logan sighed after a while had passed. The Chosen Undead merely offered another disappointed groan before pulling out his set of master keys.

"You shouldn't do that to him, Logan. Kid's gonna end up dead on his own."

Logan rested an elbow against the bars. "Well it's not my fault. I trained him as best I could but he lacks much, the foremost trait being unorthodox thinking."

"Not everybody is like you and me," Argon replied as he shimmied another key into the lock. What was with the doors in this place, they just didn't open with normal skeleton keys. Were they enchanted or something?

"Correction, there is _nobody_ like you two imbeciles." Havel quipped, pulling out a random book from a nearby shelf outside the alcove. The two undead turned to give him a blank stare before returning to their conversation. Havel merely scoffed as he read a few lines from the old book in his hands before throwing it into the pile accumulating behind him.

"Why did you come here in the first place, Logan?"

The wizard's face broke out into a smile. "To read over the findings of the paledrake, the Grandfather of Sorcery, and discover his world of immortality."

Havel scoffed again. This time it seemed to be directed toward Logan. Argon simply shook his head.

"I'm being serious. You know the truth of the albino dragon, especially after being undead for more than a century. The only thing you'll find if you follow that path of greed is your insanity."

Logan forced a chuckle. "Oh? So, my desires of knowledge is detestable whilst your climb to succeed Gwyn is noble?"

Argon flinched but continued fiddling with the cell door. "I'm not doing this because I want to."

"And why _are_ you doing it? Just because some lost Astorian saved you, is that it?" the Archbishop leaned his head back to peer at the two undead, observing as his companion said nothing.

"We both know the prophecy is false. And now that the time has gone by, you probably know more than I about the matter. But how does that change anything? To relink the Flame means to kill many beings, including the other Great Lords. To allow it fade evidently means the same. So, why do you continue to follow that hollow vow granted to a less than useful knight that gave up too early despite his duty to his quest?"

"You wouldn't understand." Argon said softly.

"Wouldn't understand?" Logan barked. "You're going to judge me when you can't even hold off your own bloodlust. Has the Abyss really taken that much hold over your being?"

At this, the undeads eyes widened. He looked at the wizard who simply sighed as if it was the simplest thing to piece together.

"I'm still Vinheim's finest. And besides the scent of that terrible sin on your soul, finding out that your body is corrupted is child's play. Just look at your right side."

Argon dropped his gaze to the floor. It was only right that Logan would be able to figure it out. As much of a jerk as he was when his motives were questioned, his thinking was not something to be taken for granted.

"Look," the wizard began. "All I mean to say is that you shouldn't spent your days following some god's bidding. Surely it hasn't been doing you any favours, correct?"

Argon scratched his cheek.

"Why not come with me? This Archive… is magnificent. And there's obviously more than just Seath's research on Dragon Scales to discover. I wouldn't mind having a fellow intellectual pilfering tomes with me, especially one as spry as you."

The Chosen Undead smirked. The offer was tempting. Argon's initial train of thought was to stuff as many books as he possibly could into his bottomless box before they were to leave this grand structure of marble. Besides that, Logan was a good friend to him, if not majorly reckless. Their adventure wouldn't really be that bad, all things considered.

The final key in his inventory rotated the tumblers within the lock before a sharp _snap_ echoed around the room. Argon remembered the faces of his comrades as he opened the door; the faces of Laurentius, fighting the masses of Izalith to save both the world and those he held dear; old Cresty and Griggs, his old pal Solaire who he hadn't seen in many moons, Havel with his grouchy façade. And finally, the warm, smiling gaze of Priscilla, who was still trapped within Seath's grasp somewhere in the castle as he continued to mope around.

A spark of his former self flashed across his eyes as Logan readjusted his hat and drew his catalyst. He couldn't abandon them, not when he had come this far, asked them to risk their lives to help him. He couldn't stop now that he had plunged himself further into something too deep for words. He had to continue, not because Oscar had pleaded it of him, but because it wasn't just him fighting to fix this world anymore.

Behind the two of them, Havel snapped another book shut before tossing it behind him. He lifted his Dragontooth from its place against the wall before entering the alcove to stand by his companion and the Dragon Scholar. He didn't know why he had been worried in the first place, the undead was a tough nut to crack for the simple fact that his head was filled with idiocy. With that in mind – no pun intended – his convictions wouldn't be weakened by a few paltry words to pick at his insecurities.

"Sorry, Logan." Argon smiled, pocketing his keys. "I like the offer, but I can't stay in one place too long. I'll get bored, especially in _this_ dump."

The wizard shrugged. "Can't win them all, I suppose."

"When have you _ever_ won against me?"

"Oh, there were a few. Like that time we took a bet against the size of Lady Rhea's ches- Mmph!"

"Pay the idiot no mind." Argon said quickly to Havel, awkwardly chuckling to himself as he held Logan in a neck-hold.

The ex-Bishop in question just muttered to himself. The youth of today was certainly going to the dogs.

"Gah!" Logan exclaimed as he was finally allowed to breath. "By the way, you still owe me a twin humanity for that bet since she wasn't as flat as you guessed."

"What are you, a debt collector for Lordran? Besides, I don't have a twin humanity sprite on me."

"Well, that's bad sportsmanship."

"How about I give you souls instead?"

"You really are a terrible negotiator. Humanity is far more valuable than any amount of-"

"How does a hundred-thousand sound to you?"

Logan was quiet for a few seconds. "Is it liquid?"

"I should hope so."

The wizard shook hands in agreement as he guided Argon outside the alcove. "Speaking of the Abyss, I think I might have a theory to help you channel its ferocity."

Argon shook his head defiantly. "I'm against even thinking about it, let alone using it."

"Oh, just listen to me anyway. Th advice is free."

Argon sighed out as their voices grew softer. "Fine."

"Great! Now, as I'm aware…"

Havel waited for them to climb up the next flight of stairs before he turned back to the remaining Pisaca's still crying quietly to themselves. There were about six of them left after the Serpent men had taken out the rest. He didn't know why they hadn't attack himself and Argon during their battle. And if they had an inkling of recognition toward him from all that time ago, he wouldn't bother to ponder about it. The only thing that remained true was that they had assisted them, whether for their own purposes or not.

Honestly, the Archbishop hadn't expected to see them after all this time had went by. He didn't recognise their faces, or from which moment in time he had seen them and failed to do something, but the sound of those feminine cries were something his old ears could never forget. How could he when they had kept him up for months, haunting his steps as he moved through the castle and underground channels in hunt for any other malicious plots of Seath?

And even after he had failed to help them, when they had endured unspeakable terror and torment, screamed until their lungs burst and cried until their bodies dehydrated, they had still done their best to protect him.

A tear escaped his eye as he saw one of the creatures standing next to a discarded scrap of parchment. He recognised the warm light emanating from it as he picked it up. Bountiful Sunlight. One of the Miracles bestowed unto Gwynevere's trusted maidens.

He felt grief and sorrow fill him as he pocketed the morsel of text, planting his shield unto his back as he two-handed his Dragontooth.

He didn't want to do it, but to leave them be was to allow them to suffer further. And quite frankly he had enough of allowing the paledrake to continue ruining the lives of others.

With a sniff, Havel walked up to the nearest Pisaca, his weapon raised high above his head. The creature seemed to notice his presence as it turned to him, before lowering its head that was flogged with a mass of serpents. The Bishop's heart sank at the simple act before tightening his grip on his club.

No more, he wouldn't allow Seath to continue with this degradation of life. He had been right to stand against the paledrake all those years ago. He had not been wrong, especially when Gwyn had turned a blind eye to it all, he didn't care what others told him. This had been a cruel act, one that deserved punishment. And since Velka wasn't able to do her job in this regard, he would do it for her. Both Seath and Gwyn were guilty for what happened to these poor women, and for what had happened to the Shining City after the fading of the Flame.

He would right those wrongs alongside Argon and Priscilla. But first, he had to make peace with his demons. First, he had to allow himself to die once again.

"I'm sorry." Havel said to the sniffling creature as he brought his Dragontooth down.

* * *

Seath observed Priscilla as she lie there, unconscious on a bed of smooth crystal. It was remarkable what time had done to his insignificant spawn as he poked and prodded various parts of her limbs, analysing the fully grown muscle and testing the pulsating aura of hers, the power of the Lifehunt beating around her form like a protective shell.

It seemed like more than a millennia that he had last felt such power furtively clinging to her mother's waist in terror at the things he had done to her. That was before she had become useless to him. Before her supply of freshly grown scales coated in draconic essence had stopped. Back then, he had spent many a day crushing those glittering plates of natural armour in his hands, both observing their everlasting properties and despising their brilliance in the light, angry that birth had not been kind to him in his centuries of festering hatred.

Seeing his daughter – he used that term simply because it was convenient – now when she had even less scales to offer toward his research was a mild inconvenience. However, a look at her supposed 'ungodly power' kindled some curiosity in him, forcing his hand as he directed his blind gaze toward her scythe.

Gwyn and his band of familiars had all been fools leading up to their own demise. It should have been obvious that their self-proclaimed 'timeless' Age of Fire would come to an end sooner or later. After all, if history and the order of things were to be believed, it was only natural for eras to come and go. In his case, as a being that outlived all, such time would pass by within a blink, a simple flash of light. The gods, in comparison, were not so lucky. Perhaps that was why they had rushed toward their own extinction?

Nito had been wise, choosing to go into hibernation. Death was the only constant, Seath felt, that would effectively live on throughout the ages even after the names of the Great Lords were forgotten in time. His only mistake had been to leave his tomb unguarded. From what Seath's many eyes around Lordran told him, the Lord of Death's power had been stolen by a maddened necromancer. Whilst that was a tragic outcome, it was an expected one. The veil of decay and his body of bones should have been more vigilant, but perhaps that wasn't entirely necessary, considering that even with his power stolen, Nito was still deeply connected to the world around him. That was why his strength seemed to dwindle even as he lay there in slumber.

As for the other two, Seath could merely offer a hiss of disappointment, continuing to collect a sample of the occultic power his offspring carried, now amplified by her inactivity within her prison.

In his time as their Duke, when he was less likely to crush all that approached him, he had warned Gwyn that his days were numbered. He had offered an iota of his research regarding the degradation of that ancient bonfire they seemed so enamoured with, as well as a few weak theories on how to potentially preserve its freshness.

However, such tricks did not ensure eternity. What they did was cause unrest, and that unrest, in turn, had caused many issues within the Land of Ancient Lords. Issues he hadn't needed to bother engaging in as Oolacile fell, the population of Man skyrocketed and the Darksign brand took over the world. In actual fact, all these problems had done was motivate him to continue his important tinkering, his life's work, his path to immortalisation.

And after years of Lordran's fall, he had finally done it.

Although the mineral he used as the conduit to channel this unending flow of life had been the optimum resource, it had cursed his body – leading to an infestation of a new kind of disease that only he possessed. He didn't care as long as he got his wish, but it would have been a lie not to admit that the way the crystal was slowly eating him from the inside out, was most certainly unbearable.

Even so, he would endure it. He had come this far, learned this much in a short space of his original lifespan and he would go further in the next Age to come. And besides, now that he had his daughter back, the pivotal height of his race, he could begin to experiment anew.

It didn't matter that she was his flesh, or that her power could combust into a chain of destruction greater than the Great Lords combined. What mattered was that she fit his criteria, and his criteria was that she was both half dragon, and completely female. Thus, his work had found a new pathway to divert into.

He had honestly taken a gamble, despite his cautious nature when he placed her in his crystalline cavern, right in front of his source of immortality. If she woke, she could escape his claws effortlessly and destroy it. He was blind so madly swiping around the room for her and blasting things with his magic would just be foolishness, he could potentially destroy his primordial crystal himself.

But that was of no concern when _she_ was with him. If she did destroy his crystal, the result of countless centuries of his research, time and life force, he would just use her next. She possessed interesting power, one that contained unlimited potential and uses. If he could extract by a handful, he could create _another_ source of immortality. One that actually healed his body rather than degraded it.

A thought flitted through his mind as he crushed a chunk of the crystal around him, merging it with the sample of her occultic power before he breathed his magic into it. Science held no limitations so long as it possessed at least one theory, one possibility. However, was that the same with regard to himself? After all, he was contemplating on using his own spawn to build a receptacle to funnel his eternity.

Seath scoffed.

Why did he care what she was? He was the one that had undergone modifications so that he could implant that cowardly goddess with his seed. He was also the one that had found a way to prevent his daughter's power from rampaging when she was infantile, thus the scythe in her hands. Whilst she was his progeny, she was also his property. And now that she had run out of the rare resource, the scales of his brethren, she was little more than spare parts for his workshop. Parts that he would use without a care in the world.

However, first he would need to take care of the pests still scampering around his Archive.

The Chosen Undead, his Nemesis, and a peculiar entity that, should by all right, be nothing but scrap metal. They were a problem, the proverbial spanner in his works.

Seath hadn't an idea how the pair of undead had escaped his dungeon, however, he knew that if they continued at the pace they were going, he would be interrupted yet again. What's more, they had let that fanatical mage out of his cell, although he was less of an inconvenience and more of an annoyance. His fascination with his work of the crystalline element was mildly impressive, however, the last thing he wanted was an insignificant rat pilfering his research as if it was owed to him.

Then again, he would simply leave the sorcerer be. He would just go mad as the dragon had, and that was a small price to pay for his collection of knowledge, was it not?

Seath dropped his failed sample onto the floor and it shattered against the icy surface. All he needed now was to deal with two more delays. They would certainly come to him if they sought to save their comrade, his daughter, from his clutches. Honestly, that was exactly what he wanted, to be discovered, hunted as if he were prey only for his pursuers to realise the error of their ways and he reversed the roles in a heartbeat.

So, the dragon removed his claws from his child, preferring to wait until his uninvited guests were either gone, or petrified by the curse he carried.

* * *

Havel and Argon made their way down yet another flight of mechanically moving stairs, around the bend where another dead mimic lie with its tongue out of its mouth, and finally down the last flight of stairs leading to the ground floor.

Their friend in mage robes and an oversized hat had long since parted, opting to return to Seath's study for some 'light reading' before agreeing to join them later. Whilst the Chosen Undead had been bordering on forceful with regard to persuading the wizard _not_ to take a peek at a madman's – or in this case, a mad dragons – work, Logan had simply replied with a pat on the shoulder and the words 'adventure awaits' before he disappeared from their recently formed trio.

The Archbishop, on the other hand was completely neutral when the Scholar had voiced his departure. He admitted that a powerful sorcerer like Big Hat would have been more than useful against the scaleless dragon; however, he knew that the admirer of that traitorous dog wouldn't want any part in slaying him.

At the same time, he was content to allow the fool to walk into his own demise. Far be it from him to keep a poor and utterly stupid soul from going hollow before their time. In his mind, he reasoned that if they wanted to die, then they wanted to die. No point in putting hope into the hopeless when they were hell-bent on eternal suicide.

Another reason why Havel didn't particularly care about the Vinheim wizard, was for the matter of just who and what possible army had swept through the dragons Archive whilst they were imprisoned. For one, every floor they had passed had been deadly quiet; empty, as if not a soul was left in sight. It was only until the two of them had reached the ground floor that they realised why: someone or some _thing_ had killed nearly every Channeler, Man Serpent, crystal hollow and blue golem in the castle. The proof was the stench of blood and the overwhelming sight of bodies and broken crystal strewn about the stairway, the main walkways, against the bookshelves and one or two dangling from the banisters of the grand library. To state that it was complete carnage would have been paying it a compliment.

"Phew, that stinks." Argon muttered, waving a hand in front of his face. He could take the scent of blood just fine. Hell, he had just dug through the bodies of a few Channeler's before being thrown into a dungeon. And since he had spent a lot of time in the Lower Burg amidst the stench of burning bodies, he was fairly certain he could handle most smell's without flinching.

The conglomerative of nearly a hundred bodies in one room with their mixed blood congealing on the floor, however? Now _that_ was asking way too much of him.

"This was most certainly not me." Havel rolled his eyes at his companion. Of course this wasn't his doing. The wounds on these corpses were made by someone stronger than Argon, surprisingly. He could tell from the large cracks in the floor, the cleaner cuts in the flesh of these fallen soldiers, and especially the method this unknown assailant had used to kill this many foes.

Argon's style was an array of fighting styles all directed toward finishing opponents quickly. He had observed the undead long enough to figure that much out. As for the strength and power of his swings, they came down diagonally. The reasons were due to the way he stood and the weight he placed into his favoured side.

This attacker was much different. They were almost perfectly straight, and the way in which more than one corpse was decorated with their heads severed argued that the assailant was most likely taller than the regular undead. The ex-Bishop hummed as he thought of what kind of warriors could have accumulated this kill count, but all his theories escaped out the window when he narrowed down the stance used to fell this many.

"There's just no way." Havel said as he walked away from the body of a Man Serpent.

"You say something?" Argon asked, popping his head around the corner of a bookshelf. Havel waved him off.

"Its nothing." The Chosen Undead nodded before the Archbishop's gaze found something rather interesting on the balcony a few metres away from them. "Is that… a bonfire?"

Argon looked up from the book he had picked off the shelf. His amber orbs followed Havel's line of sight and found said resting place. He cleared his throat, tossed the bloodstained book behind him carelessly and approached it without hesitation.

The flames were curling around the shaft of its respective coiled sword as they stood next to it, and when Argon touched the hilt of the blade, he felt something that made him hum in curiosity.

"What is it?" Havel asked him.

"Someone's already been here before us."

"How can you tell?"

"There's a few reasons, the main one being that the bonfire was already lit when we got here." The Chosen Undead took out a humanity sprite from his pouch and held it to the flames below him. The Bishop watched as the black mass was absorbed by the fire before crackling a bit louder.

"And they've already bolstered its properties."

"Do you think it was the same party that killed all those followers of Seath?" the armoured undead questioned with a hand to his chin.

Argon shrugged his shoulders. "Doesn't matter. We should be grateful they did all the work for us."

"I suppose you're ri-" Havel began when he finally noticed the scenery before him.

The balcony overlooked grounds within the castle. This one in particular was quite interesting because he had seen it more than once when traversing other levels of the castle. It was a small forest of thin, but tall trees surrounded by lush grass. The picture itself wasn't that curious, but the mass of crystal that formed into some type of monolithic cave was.

"What is that?" Argon asked.

"The only place Seath would go if he isn't in the castle."

"Hmm." The Chosen Undead replied as the two of them stared at the mass of shiny rock.

From what Logan's astute analysis had said about Seath's movements, his supposed laboratory wasn't exactly inside his Archive, per se. From the wizard's assumption, the paledrake would need a place to conduct his experiments in private in case one of the other Great Lords, namely Gwyn, were to enter his abode or send a servant to request his presence.

However, from what vague knowledge Logan had on the dragon, he had only begun perfecting this Crystal Release after the Lord of Sunlight had departed to the Kiln. Which meant that this cave or hideout was built during the fall of Lordran, away from prying eyes when his servants went out to capture various maidens from their homelands.

If their guess was correct, and when backed by the Vinheim graduate, they were never wrong, it would mean that both Seath and Priscilla were possibly inside that odd-looking crystal formation. He wouldn't be in his study; he had been forced to move out of it when they had attacked him inside of it. So the only lead they had was the opening beyond the forest they were currently staring down at.

"Look's like we've found our destination." Argon quipped as he pulled out his bottomless box from his hip pouch, set it on the ground after it grew to size, and began searching through it.

"Its going to take a while to get down there." Havel grumbled. From the room they stood in, they would need to go at least a floor or two lower until they reached it. And given this castle's size and identical corridors, it might be difficult for them to find their way around. This was a problem for the Archbishop for many reasons, the chief one among them being that they didn't have long to save Priscilla.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that." He heard his companion reassure him as he rose to his feet, putting away a quickly shrinking bottomless box before patting the pouch it rested in.

"What, did you find a hidden passageway or something?"

Argon chuckled, giving him a sheepish smile. "Something like that."

It was only when the undead flung a bundle of rope over the balcony that the ex-compatriot of Gwyn got the message.

"Are you an idiot or what?" Havel scolded him in anger.

"Or what." Was Argon's reply as he tugged the piece of robe tied and tightly knotted to the thick wood of the balcony's railing.

"There's n way we can climb down a bloody _balcony_."

"Of course we can. Have you never read Rapunzel before?"

"No, actually. I haven't. I've been locked inside a tower for nearly an eternity."

"Funnily enough, so has Rapunzel." Argon chuckled and vaulted the railing, placing his boots against the side of the castle wall as he prepared to climb down. "Unfortunately, whilst she had hair longer than Gwynevere's illusion is tall, you are most clearly bald."

"So what if I'm bald? I'm old dammit." Havel groused with his arms cross. "You live through a century or two and see if retain all your hair."

"Actually, from what I can piece together, I've been undead for nearly a full century… probably." Argon looked up in thought. "Can't really remember all that well. The memories come to me in drips and drab's… most of the time in the form of nightmares… weird right?"

Havel sighed out as the undead in front of him began to repel down the side of the castle. He was really going through with this? Well, obviously, he was climbing down right in _front_ of his eyes, but even still, he honestly thought it was that easy?

It was common knowledge that the hero of a story or antagonist had to suffer and going through too many obstacles to count before he reached his destination. And here the supposed 'hero' of this world was, cheating the order of things as if it was a walk in the park.

_Well, technically this was a walk in the park_, he thought before shaking his head and leaning over the balcony.

"What about me, eh?"

"Wh- urgh…" the undead grunted as he fixed his footing and jumped back again, lowering himself jump by jump. "What about you?"

"How am I supposed to get down?"

"Simple, follow my example."

"Are you aware my armour weighs nearly a ton?"

"Then take it off. Ooh, this is good exercise for the arms."

"I will _not_ strip down like some uncouth vagrant."

"Then I guess you'll just have to stay up there until I kill your nemesis." Argon replied as he reached the grounds below, dusting his hands off as he stared back up at the Archbishop.

Havel ground his teeth as he stared down at the undead. This was just like him, forcing his companions to do something foolish so that they could continue their journey. He bet that if Priscilla were here, she would have outright refused to follow by the Chosen Undeads questionable example. Then again, the crossbreed was extremely light, even with her scythe and leather amour into account. And besides her weight, she would most likely follow Argon even if it meant jumping off a tall cliff.

Besides all that though… that was a _long_ way down. How did the undead manage to reach the bottom so quickly, and just how long was that single length of rope?

"Come on gramps, times are wasting."

The ex-bishop sighed out in resignation as he began to remove his gauntlets. There was no winning this argument. Not by a long shot.

"Just… don't tell anyone about this. You hear?" Argon smiled in triumph as Havel grabbed a hold of the rope.

"Who could I possibly tell?" he was _so_ going to tell people; it didn't matter who.

* * *

"Ah, golems." Havel said flatly as he redressed into his armour. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Ohh, so _this_ is where the kids' playground was. I was nearly lost for a moment there." Argon laughed at his own joke as his companion rolled his eyes. As if his stupidity wasn't enough, now he was belting out humourless jokes every chance he got? Why didn't he just stay in the bloody tower?

"Judging from the size of the opening, the cave seems like to goes underground."

Havel took a moment to peer through the trees and into the opening guarded by two burly crystal golems stomping around aimlessly.

"Doesn't look like it'll be easy to go through it unnoticed." The Bishop murmured. His companion nodded in agreement, a bastard sword appearing in his hand.

"We'll have to take them out one by one as we go along." The black-haired undead commented, placing the blade against his shoulder. "We can take 'em out easily if we just- oh, well that's interesting."

"What is?" Havel asked with a frown.

Argon pointed his free hand toward a cluster of trees not far from them where a lone crystal golem stood. The golem itself was smaller than the other's lumbering about with their fingerless hands swaying. But what made this one stand out from the rest was that it was taller than the rest as well… and gold in colour.

"What is that one so much taller than the others," Havel began. "and why is it gold?"

Argon didn't reply, opting to flip his sword in his grip as he marched forward.

"Argon, where are you g-"

"You'll get the answer to that and more once I kill this thing and free a damsel in distress." Argon cut him off, two-handing his blade before sighing out. He just hoped it wasn't Dusk inside that mass of crystal again. He wouldn't be able to handle the annoyance she brought with her whenever she came close to him, especially when she had 'subtly' tried to jump his bones when he was sleep in the Sanctuary that one time.

Come to think of it, if this _was_ her then how the hell did she manage to appear in Lordran again? He knew time was mess here because of some Zeus wannabe in gold but dimensional warping should be impossible for her; especially after he had killed that ugly thing with a thousand red eyes chasing him around for the other half of his momma's pendant. What was his name again? Menace? No, Nemesis? Nah, that beast was something completely different.

The undead cleared his mind as planted his sword in the ground before his trusty black bow appeared in his hands in a flash of light.

If there was one thing he had learned after fighting the golems in Darkroot Basin, it was that needlessly rushing up to them was a rookie mistake. One wrong move and the uppercut's these things were famous for would rip your head from your shoulders faster than a Parent Mushroom would pulverise you to mincemeat if you decided to play hide and seek with its child.

In that sense, Argon found that the lazier approach was more acceptable. It took longer, sure, but he would rather these maiden abductors come to him instead. That way he could dodge the first swipe they put their backs into before lopping their head's clean off. It was just a shame his Zweihander was shattered to pieces.

Nevertheless, Argon drew an arrow from the small quiver placed diagonally against the base of his spine. He still remembered the strategy well enough to pull this off. One shot and the golem would be on alert, a second shot and the mass of crystal would find him. A third shot just for luck since everything was perfect in three's and finally cut it down on four with a swing of his sword.

It was easy in theory, but difficult in practice. Even so, he had killed more than enough of them to get the hang of it.

Havel, for the meantime, decided to wait and watch. It would be better if his companion handled this skirmish as opposed to him anyway. His Dragontooth would just draw unwanted attention if he were to engage the golden golem. And the last thing he wanted was to face more than two of these hulking masses of rock in an open space.

He was fairly surprised, however, when the Chosen Undead dealt with it in less than a full minute. It was over before it even began. One moment Argon was pelting the golem with arrows, the next it punched the ground forcing Argon to roll away as a small cluster of golden stalagmites shot up from where he was standing, and then the thing's head was destroyed after the undead ran forward, grabbed his sword and gave the vulnerable thing two solid slashes.

However, what was even more astonishing was that after the creature had burst into soulmass, it had deposited a _person_.

Havel stood next to his companion in utter confusion as they both observed the soldier before them, arms crossed, weapons sheathed, and _sleeping_ whilst on their own two feet.

From the looks of their steel grey armour that was either made larger than wear or simply accommodated the wearer's body mass, and he bulbous helmet they wore which looked very much like a fresh onion, the Archbishop guessed that their nationality was the jovial country of Catarina.

In his time as Archbishop of Anor Londo, he recalled visiting many other nations as Gwyn's influence began to stretch further than his own domain. As such, he had been there when the country known for their happy persona's and jubilant smiles had created the prototype for this large set of equipment. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine that the finished model would look like this, however.

"Onion Boi, that you?" Argon asked in confusion as he knocked against the round helm with his knuckles.

"How did he manage to get inside that golem?" Havel asked, mind apparently boggled.

"Wasn't it obvious? The golem ate him."

"These things EAT people?!" Havel made a wide-eyed face. To think that he would have ended up in the same fate as this poor chap if he had allowed but one of those stomping minerals within arms-length of him inside the Archives. Seath was truly mad in his machinations.

"They do…" Argon began, placing a hand on his chin. "But I was aware that they only abducted women for the dragon to experiment on."

Havel opened his mouth, about to curse the name of the Duke for his vile ways when the Catarinian before them stirred.

"Urgh… mm…" both men raised an eyebrow. Those murmurs sounded suspiciously feminine.

The Onion-headed warrior shook their head before looking directly at Havel and Argon. Neither one said a word before recognition seemed to reach the supposed woman before them.

"Oh! Was it you who rescued me?" Havel merely pointed to Argon, who was still as confused by the woman talking to them

_When did Sir Onion swap genders?_

The Catarinian turned her visor to stare at him. "Why, thank you."

Argon blinked. This situation was fairly familiar for some odd reason. In fact, he felt a strong sense of déjà vu, and he didn't know whether he liked it or not.

"Uhm… it was no problem?"

The woman shuffled forward, her armour clinking.

"I am Sieglinde of Catarina." Argon nodded; he could have guessed that much. "I don't know how I ended up in that crystal… it wasn't terrible in there but I could hardly move."

"Understandable why you were asleep then." Havel said as Argon looked at him blankly. He frowned before crossing his arms in annoyance. "What? Would you have anything better to do in there?"

"I must repay you." Sieglinde interrupted both of them as she patted her armour in search of some sort of gift before her head snapped back up in realisation.

"Oh! I nearly forgot, have you seen my father?"

"Your father?" the Archbishop repeated. This was just getting more confusing the more they continued speaking.

"Ohhh no." Argon said quietly to himself. This could not be true. It was just too good to believe, there was no way… was there?

"Yes, you wouldn't miss him. A suit of armour just like mine?"

"Ah, crap." Argon facepalmed and the two of them stared at him in curiosity.

There was a way indeed, it appeared.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the arid dryness of Izalith, underneath a caved in ceiling with overgrown roots the colour of ash, stood a knight dressed in a similar fashion, his arms crossed, a hefty Zweihander resting across his back as he nodded off on his own two feet.

"Zzzz…"

"Uh, excuse me."

"Zzzz…"

"Sorry, mate. Could I ask you something?"

"Zzzz…"

"Perhaps we should leave him be, Laurentius. He must be quite tired if he's in deep slumber."

"I agree… h-he seems quite t-t-tired, esp-specially in that armour…"

"See? Queren agrees."

"Come on Solaire, we can't just leave him her-"

"Hmm?" three sets of eyes turned to the strange fellow in armour that made him look obese. For the Pyromancer, however, he was under the assumption that this newcomer _was_ just obese.

"Hm… uh, OH!" the man exclaimed, unfolding his arms, and turning to the trio standing next to him. He seemed to behave neutral despite the face that if he took a step forward, he would fall into a mosh pit filled with demons.

"Forgive me. I was lost in thought, or was I dreaming?" he asked as if they knew what his thoughts were.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he said and straightened, pulling his piercing shield and Zweihander off his back and rolling his shoulders before holding his arms out widely. "I am Siegmeyer of Catarina!"

* * *

**Yes, I'm am aware I've been absent for nearly a whole month. The reason is: life is unpredictable.**

**Anyways, please enjoy this chapter, the penultimate instalment of this Arc, the… uh…**

**\- _you forgot the Arc again, didn't you?_ **

**I'm not proud of it… but yes.**

**\- _(*sigh)_ **

**Right, so I had originally wanted to name Ceaseless Discharge "Langol", which is the Hungarian word for 'Blaze'. However, I didn't know if it would have fit him or not, so I just put 'Ren' in front of the hereditary Que. I had even created this whole reason why he wasn't going to have Que in front of his name and stuff. A shame, right?**

**Ah, yes, with regard to Havel, he used Wrath of the Gods to kill those Serpent Men. When he was referring to ' _that_ god' that taught him various forms of magic, he was talking about Allfather Lloyd. In essence, the point I was trying to make was that before he was exiled and the world went to hell, he trained under the god to learn various Miracles and such. Since he was still technically an Archbishop even after his betrayal, his faith is inanely high. As for his wisdom, my thinking was that since he's been alive for so long, and alongside Gwyn no less, his understanding of magic and its application would be very much different from your average sorcerer or mage. **

**To support this, think of Beatrice. Her intelligence is leagues above most people in Lordran, probably even Logan's, and her own practice of magic led to her spells becoming insanely powerful. In the same manner, Havel's ability to understand the element he hates due to his high level of knowledge availed him the ability to alter the power of the Miracle he used.**

**I'm going to be using this line of thinking with regard to magic going forth since the usual 'fire spell, kill a boss' idea doesn't appeal to me. I don't think I'm going to be creating any new Sorceries/Pyromancies/Miracles because I don't want to break the Lore, just bend it. However, if I come up with a something that's imaginable, I'll incorporate it somewhere.**

**If you have any other questions, feel free to message me. I'd much prefer it if you used my e-mail address since it's easier for me to answer your questions when I'm on the move.**

**That being said, please review. I'd love to hear your thoughts, dislikes and opinions. Flames are, as always, still welcome.**

**Take care, stay blessed and squirrels to the nuts!**


	26. Chapter 26

**Hmm, what's this, you guys want another chapter from me so soon? Was the cliffhanger not enough or something? (*rubs nose with a sniff)**

**Well, I'm sorry to tell you that there is no chapter for you to read. None today, dear compatriots. You'll all have to wait another fortnight before the next one arrives. Now, please avert your eyes as I place this manuscript riiiight… here (*places manuscript down on table). **

**Hm? Oh, that pile of paper on the table is by _no_ means Chapter 26. Nope, not Chapter 26 at all. That being said. Do not read it whilst my back is turned. Got it? Good. (*turns around) **

**\- _(*sighs) no wonder only a few people leave you reviews. You're a nutcase doused in stupidity. On with ze story._ **

* * *

"I'm sorry." Argon sighed

"Oh, please, don't be." Sieglinde replied with a polite tone.

"Uh, no. Please let me finish first."

"Oh, I'm so terribly sorry."

Argon raised his hands up to shush her. "There's really no need to apologise."

"Oh, but I insist," the Catarinian pressed, cupping her onion helm. "It's my fault for interrupting you. You see, I've never really been able to control my mouth."

"Really? You seem to be doing just fine to me."

"Do you really?" Sieglinde asked in an excited tone and Argon simply nodded solemnly.

Havel, meanwhile, was just staring at both of them, feeling like he had been left out of the loop completely. Normally, he wouldn't really care what the undead next to him spoke or thought of simply because his companion muttered about everything and anything nonsensical that it was pointless to listen. However, now that they actually had company besides Priscilla that seemed genuinely intellectual, he had tried his hand at understanding just what the hell those two were talking about only to come up short.

Honestly, what had just happened? One moment they were staring at a muttering Argon after the Onion Knightess had told them her father was around Lordran, and now he and Sieglinde were having a discussion as to who should apologise first? Or was he complimenting her on her lack of sputtering? He couldn't tell. Suddenly it just felt like a whole lot of stupid had weighed down the air around him.

"So, what exactly would your father be doing in Lordran?" Havel asked the Catarinian.

In reply, she turned to him, armour still jangling as she reached up a glove to her helmet and tapped it a few times. If the sound of the dull clinking of her brace against the helm wasn't annoying enough, she was taking too damn long to answer a short damn question. Did she think they had the time to stand around a garden of human-eating golems whilst she remembered the foolish acts of her father? Seriously, where all people of the current generation this slow?

"Oh, he's just here to partake in adventure." Sieglinde finally answered.

"Wha- I beg your pardon?" Havel hadn't heard right. Her father, who appeared to be as brainless as his undead companion had chosen to come _here_ in search of adventure? Was this man senile in his undead years?

"Come now, Havel, this isn't the time to be asking pointless questions." Argon scolded with his finger raised. "We have a mission to attend to, if you haven't noticed."

The Archbishop ground his teeth as he stared at Argon treat him like some annoying old man. Now, he really felt like continuing their battle from last time. It was just a shame this poor maiden was before them, stopping him from showing the Chosen Undead what it felt like to have his face caved in.

"I know that already." He growled at Argon before hauling his Dragontooth against his shoulder. "Let's just go already. Sieglinde, it was a pleasure to meet you."

At the mention of her name, the Onion Knightess took a quick step forward. "Oh, do forgive me. I did not know of your quest, or its urgency."

Argon waved her off. "Meh, don't be. This was just a pit stop, is all. A little break to relax the nerves. A deep breath before the plunge. The ragged pant after a good shag-"

"She gets the point already." Havel conked his companion on the head, effectively shutting him up as they began to head for the mouth of the crystal cave.

"Please, wait a moment." Sieglinde called out, her hand raised.

Havel sighed and turned his body. He knew she meant well, but time was of the essence here. Whilst he had faith in the skills of himself and his compatriot, as well as the luck of their beloved crossbreed, he didn't want to test luck – since she had already proven how much she despised him after joining Argon's party.

"What is it now?" he asked in annoyance, ignoring the frown the orange-eyed undead threw his way.

"If you are going someplace, I wish to accompany you."

"What? Why?"

"If I do not find my father down whatever path you choose to take, perhaps I can repay you both with my blade."

The ex-Bishop thought of that for a moment before Argon beat him to an answer. What surprised him was the Chosen Undeads blatant refusal, in the form of a displeased shake of the head.

"Sorry Sieg's daughter, you have to leave this place. Now."

"Oh, but why?" the woman asked in confusion.

"Because besides delaying our rescue attempt, you might become an Everlasting Dragon's fancy regarding crystals, bondage and a damn ton of experiments that may or may not turn you into a weeping snake woman."

The Onion Knightess retreated a few steps at his words. Would all that really happen, or was he just being paranoid?

"What he means is that we can handle things on our own." Havel cut in with another sigh. He could understand his friend's logic but at the same time they needed the numbers. Just two people may not be enough despite their abundance in skill. And there was always reassurance in numbers. But if his fool-hardy companion decided to lose the idiot for a moment and be rarely realistic then he would honour the decision.

"Besides, I doubt your father would be in Anor Londo."

At this, Sieglinde gasped.

"I'm in the city of the gods?"

Havel sighed; they were better off leaving the woman to sleep on her feet.

"That's enough chit-chat for today. Let me warp you out of here." Argon redirected the conversation as he led Sieglinde towards the rope still hanging from the wall. "Climb up."

"She won't be able to climb up with her equipment, you idiot." Havel grumbled as Argon looked at the wall.

"Oh?" the undead replied before shrugging. "That's easy to fix."

He looked back at Sieglinde. "Please strip."

"W-W-What?" the Onion Knightess stuttered as Havel walked up and clobbered Argon upside the head with his fist.

"Ow! Bloody hell old man."

"Don't you have any manners, boy? What would Priscilla think when she finds out you asked another woman to strip bare before your lecherous gaze? And besides that, what are you thinking asking her to disrobe in the first place?!"

"I only meant get rid of the weight," the undead replied as he rubbed his sore head. "It'll be easier for her to climb up the rope and onto the balcony."

"Oh, if you wish for me to reach that level, I suggest we take that entry point over there." Sieglinde pointed to a wooden ladder attached to a walkway leading into the castle. Havel sweat-dropped. It had been there the whole time? How had they _not_ seen that?

Argon merely hummed in response. "Well, that makes it easier to warp outta here."

"I'm sorry. Warp?" the Knightess repeated.

"Warp, teleport, jump, tear a rift though space and time just for a hitchhiker; call it whatever you want. Just get up there and I can send us to one of the safest places in Lordran just like snapping a Homeward Bone." He said.

"I see," Sieglinde nodded as Argon walked up to the wall. "But I can't use bonfires like Undead do."

Havel watched as Argon slipped on the moist soil and face-planted into the ground.

"The hell do you mean 'like Undead do'?" the Chosen Undead questioned, spitting out a mouthful of grass and a small earthworm. "What makes you so special, huh?"

"Oh, I'm so terribly sorry, I meant no disrespect." The Knightess apologised quickly before standing up straighter. "What I meant to say was that I am human."

At this, it was Havel's turn to slip and fall on his back. Just what kind of delay had luck sent to screw with their chances _this_ time?

* * *

The air felt… cold as Priscilla opened her eyes. Although she was basically immune to the lowered temperature by now, this type of chill felt much more different than the one she was used to. It was cold, yet manageable. Icy, and yet oddly neutral at the same time. Furthermore, she could hear a soft tinkling all around her, as if she were standing in a room filled with chimes.

As the crossbreed surveyed this new environment, she came to realise two vitally important things. The first, was that the coldness and tinkling she was feeling was due to the crystalline chamber she was in. And the second, was the understanding that she was trapped behind a domed cage of the blue mineral, suspended nearly twenty feet above the ground.

She jerked around in her cell, feeling around for her scythe in order to cut through the bars when her hand suddenly stopped. There was no guarantee she would survive the fall if she chopped her way out of her prison. Despite her dragon and goddess genes, a fall from that height would still kill her if she didn't land on her feet, or at least cause her serious pain.

Now that she thought about it, where was she exactly? And where was her Lifehunt scythe? Priscilla looked around the room, hair whipping around as she scanned every nook and cranny of the room until her eyes fell on the last thing she wanted to see.

Seath lifted his head up an inch at the sound of her shuffling before he huffed out a cloud of cold air from his large nostrils. He was standing on the other end of the room, his back to her, tinkering with an average test tube despite his gargantuan hands. She watched keenly as he swirled the strange mixture of cobalt and violet around in the tube before he scoffed and threw it against the crystal wall to his left.

Her eyes darted to it as the two colours mixed in before letting out a vapour akin to noxious gas. It only took her a moment to realise that the violet substance was Lifehunt energy.

"F-Father…" she hesitated. Was it still apt to call him by that title? After everything he had done, after everything he had put her through only to call her a tool for him to ascend from this plain's mortality? Was it even right to assume that she carried his genes within herself when all she saw before her was a sick, twisted dragon stuck in the same game of mental limbo with himself?

Seath didn't reply to her. Whether he heard her or not was debatable at this point, although she knew he was just ignoring her. He had always ignored her, even back then when she had pined for his attention, only to regret it when he showed her just how dark his 'affection' could be.

But even so… even if she despised the fact that he was her father and the Queen of Sunlight was her mother… she couldn't bring herself to hate them entirely. Their actions she could judge however she saw fit, but themselves as living beings, and her parents… now that was another matter entirely.

Although she had grown up watching him do the same thing for eons, never paying her any mind besides the times he would painfully extract one of her newly grown scales; she still couldn't fill her heart with hate towards him, or bring her mouth to utter a curse toward the things he had done to her.

How funny it was. She was sure that if Argon had been here with her, he would have said the same thing.

At the thought of said undead, Priscilla remembered that she still possessed his mask with her and reached up to grab it from her face. However, upon lifting her hands to grasp her face, she felt not the smooth, cool feeling of the plain white porcelain, but her soft, warm cheeks.

With a hint of worry, she search around her suspended cage like a stressed canary until she sighed out in relief, eyes finally finding the innocuous face covering resting next to her tail. With eager fingers, she picked it up and held it to her chest, mind finally at ease as his lingering scent invaded her senses.

She knew what would have most likely happened after he had been attacked by that golem on the lift system, and honestly her heart grew heavy with apprehension. It wouldn't be the first time he had lost control of his baser instincts, and it certainly wasn't the last time either. Her uncle had done what he could, placing that subtle charm within his mask to hamper the effects of the Abyss. However, she didn't believe that was wise, considering just how strong its influence was with Argon. If anything, he had probably rampaged worse than before after the magic inhibitor had been lifted.

Her teeth found her bottom lip as she nibbled on it in thought. Despite his reluctance to ask for help or accept it, she had gotten through to him in some way or another. He knew it too, which was why he tried to distance his thoughts and emotions from her. And whilst that train of thought brought happiness to her, it also filled her head with troubles.

Whatever was going on with him internally, it was making him worse. He was doing his best to hide it, although he was also unconsciously pushing both herself and Sir Havel away in the process. That wasn't all, however. The happy persona he forced himself to wear was beginning to possess cracks. They both knew it wasn't long until he finally became undone. And that thought alone was enough to scare her.

Argon was a stable foundation to her, and he relied on her just as much. The addition of the ex-Archbishop added to that stability of theirs. Besides that, the Chosen Undead knew of her feelings by now. He had always known, from the time they taken a short pause in Darkroot Basin. And if she read the room with regard to how much he valued her, she would come to the conclusion that he felt the same emotions towards her.

And that was why she worried for him. As he was now, he was a mass of confusion, pain, regret, and doubt. It didn't take a genius to figure out how lost he was with himself.

But she wouldn't despair. He was Argon, after all. No matter what he said to push her and Sir Havel away, no matter what he did to try and make them turn their backs on him, they would not stop standing by him. He was just too much of an adorable idiot to let go of, and that was probably one of the reasons she loved him so much.

Turning back to the matter at hand, she breathed in deep as she regarded Seath again. If possible, she didn't want to see him die. Even though his lust for immortality had caused immense damage on more than one front, he didn't deserve death by their hands, even if the Undead Prophecy said so. They were not the judges of anyone besides themselves. Such power belonged to her Aunt Velka, wherever she may be, and her alone.

So, instead of damning him to death, she would pay him the courtesy he would never pay others. She would give him a chance. Not to redeem him but to prove whether there was still anything left inside of him. She owed it herself to at least try and reconcile.

"Father." Priscilla uttered, her voice more resolute. Seath didn't turn round but she knew he heard her.

"Father listen to me. I know… that you don't see me as anything to you. I know that never saw me, or Mother as anything more than tools to you in the past, which is why you barely even notice us. Yet… even so, I don't wish for things to remain as they are."

The paledrake breathed out a cloud of air that glittered in sparkles of blue white.

"You know as well as I that the Chosen Undead will be here soon. If not for Lord Gwyn's soul within you then for me, instead. When he does arrive, there is sure to be a clash of devastating power. And despite how powerful you are, Argon will not yield until you are defeated."

He continued his toil, conjuring his strange magic up into his hand before breathing wisps of white energy into it, solidifying the spell before it was reabsorbed into his body.

"And despite everything you've done. All that has occurred with both Lord Gwyn, Mother, and myself; I don't want this to be the end." Priscilla took a deep breath. It was hard to say all this without resentment and pain filling her mind, but she pushed it aside for the benefit of what was right. Seath was most likely already a lost cause, unable to think of anyone other than himself but that didn't mean he was beyond understanding. If she could say the right words to channel that part of him, she knew would heed her words, then she could prevent any more bloodshed on Argon's part. And besides that…

"I don't want to see you die!" she screamed, breaking his concentration as he turned around, blind eyes looking her way. Hope bloomed in her chest, forcing her to push on and open her thoughts for him to hear.

"I don't want to lose you again, not after Mother…" she gulped, recalling the words Gwyndolin told her about the illusion in that chamber. Despite her age, she had not managed to grow her mind to accept the fact that she still needed that familial bond. Even though her heart had been closed for so long, she had still yearned to be closer to either one of them during the centuries spent in Ariamis' painting. Because no matter how hard she tried in the past to feel hate towards them after Lord Gwyn had imprisoned her, just the sight of the being that was her father biologically, made her love for him grow even more. For what child could truly despite their parents? What child did not seek their affection after so much time apart?

Whether those parents were kind or menacing toward said child, the love in the young offspring would never falter, because such a love was infallible, eternal. That was why she didn't want to see him face Argon. That was why she was kneeling in her cage, tears wetting her face as she pleaded to whatever god would listen that she could get through to him just once. That she could touch even a small piece of his heart.

"Please! Do not do this Father. Relinquish your Lord Soul to Argon once he arrives. There is no need for further death, this can be resolved peacefully." Seath flicked his tails around as he moved around the room, his eyes unblinking but his ears still locked onto Priscilla's voice.

It was a foolish thing she did, attempting to get across to him after she knew she was nothing in his eyes. And yet, hearing her beg him to reconsider his options was mildly reminiscent of Gwyn's daughter. He may have been insane after all that time, but he never did forget the day she had stood there before him, wailing loudly as she pleaded for him not to experiment on their daughter.

He hadn't cared what Gwynevere had thought of his attempts at immortality, and her ailing father had wisely remained blind to it, even as he began taking more and more maidens from the castle. It was a shame that the Queen of Sunlight just never understood him from the beginning.

He was an Everlasting Dragon. One of the last of his kind. And if that fact weren't enough for her to get the picture, he was also Seath the Scaleless. The traitor, the albino dragon, the paledrake, and the wisest of them all. He cared not for emotions and feelings after he had been shunned since his birth, he refused to acknowledge anything around him unless it added stimulus to his mind and aide to his research. The only reason he had even chosen to marry Gwynevere and create a spawn of their own was because he had run out of the scales of his brethren to concoct new experiments with.

He was brash, arrogant, unparalleled in his craft, the Grandfather of Sorcery and, of course, immensely pig-headed. He would never listen to the feeble words of a goddess so long as she stood there, arms wrapped around his neck as she solicited him for mercy against her child.

Despite how much his hatred had grown for her, he had still acquiesced to her demands, but only after he had taken all the scales he could from the crossbreed with the power of Lifehunt. Casting her into that idiotic painter's portrait had been his reply to Gwynevere's pleas. It had also gotten the other gods off his back after they had all discovered how hazardous she was to their health, should she, much like Velka, find disfavour amongst the divinity of Anor Londo.

In truth, he had known exactly when Priscilla had been freed from her jail. His sight stretched further than the Dark Sun God assumed. He had felt the results of her maturity, the potency of how much occultic energy flowed through her veins as she travelled around Lordran with that masked undead.

From the reports his Channeler's relayed to him, she had decided to follow this Argon to the ends of the world so long as he remained by her side. Honestly, it was a surprise to hear that she didn't hold any ill will toward him after all that time had passed by.

He would have never assumed in all his life that she would turn out exactly like her mother, prostrating before him, requesting a ceasefire so as to not only bring about peace, but to also ensure _his_ safety.

He had felt the urge to scoff when she had screamed her worry for him. What did she think it would achieve? And besides, was she foolish enough to think that he _would_ fall should he face her corrupted lover? He should finally end her life now whilst he had the chance, use her body and power to strengthen the Primordial Crystal. There was enough time before the Chosen Undead arrived to reclaim her. It would be a simple task for him after his research on crystal release had reached its summit.

And yet… even as he contemplated doing just that, his hands remained at his sides. He could kill her with a simple blast of his cursed breath yet his lungs refused to conjure up the required magic to do so.

It was perplexing to the dragon as he stood in the same room as her, his enhanced senses managing to make out her form suspended in mid-air. With what little he had managed to do regarding his sight, he could just barely make out the quivering of her shoulders as he stared at her outline. He could hear the pathetic tears she cried that slid down her face and hit the crystal base of her cage with a sound that oddly resonated with his own heartbeat.

Succinct thoughts crossed his mind as he listened to her sob. Thoughts like how she was this concerned about him, why she still bothered to gain his non-existent affection, why was she so small in size, and what would his answer be.

They were all confusing to the paledrake. So much so that he felt compelled to take her advice.

"I know we can sort this all out, if… if only you would just heed my words." Priscilla sniffed, wiping her swollen eyes. She was sure she could save him from death. All they needed was the Lord Soul shard within him, not his entire life. If he could just agree to what she was asking him to do, there wouldn't be a need for this constant state of violence.

"It won't be long before they come. And when they do, perhaps you and Sir Havel could even-"

**_CRASH!_ **

Priscilla shielded her face as a rain of shattered crystal flew around the room, steam filling the place where Seath had fired off his attack. Her green eyes found him once again, witnessing the rage behind those murky blue eyes before he approached her cage and hissed at her dangerously.

Fear filled her as she saw his throat light up, an amalgamation of magic and crystal energy swirling around the back of his throat as his maw opened before her, shadowing her body as she held Argon's mask tighter to her chest.

No matter how powerful she was, if she replied with an attack of her own, it would do little more than tickle Seath's pale body before she was ripped apart. And without her scythe by her side, she wouldn't be able to negate the damage of such a point-blank attack.

"F-F-Father please…"

At the sound of her voice, she watched as Seath turned his head away from her and blasted the ground with an unending stream of magic as he roared in anger. The floor immediately grew, cursed and tainted crystals rising up to cultivate the area like a graveyard of spikes before they all receded just as quickly as they had formed.

Seath huffed into her face, cold and cursed breath sending goosebumps down her skin as he trailed away from her, exiting the chamber with more hissing as his wings began to beat. It was then that she knew she had utterly ruined her chances. Failed in her attempt to save him from himself.

She began to cry anew as she realised the futility of it all. Her father's mind was lost to his creations, he could not hear her. All she had really done, was fuel the beast with more rage. All she had done, was speed up her father's path to his own destruction.

Her sobs turned into a wail and she curled up into a ball, her tail wringing itself as she mourned for the loss of her parent. The only other thought that occupied her mind was the need for someone to save her from this despair. The only one she wished for right now… was Argon.

* * *

After a short delay that consisted of more inane conversation, Havel getting into another mood swing and a quick clobber to Argon's head due to the Archbishop being pissed off, both undead found themselves taking cautious steps down a narrow, and decidedly disorientating beam of azure crystal.

Their exchange with Sieglinde had ended with her successfully getting the hell out of Anor Londo with a kind incline of her helm and soothing words before the familiar spell circle had wrapped around her feet and taken her far from the Shining City. As it turned out, humans couldn't interact with bonfires. However, they could still use Homeward Bones… for… reasons Argon could still not comprehend. According to Havel, said flimsy bones worked the same as Miracles that transported one back toward their homeland.

In the case of undead, they would be redirected back to the last bonfire they rested at. Apparently, it had something to do with the various Firekeeper's pulling the strings or something like that, something he could understand. With regard to humans, however, they would simply need to think of an area they considered safe before the spell itself did the rest. It was nifty, how magic worked differently with the different races. When Argon thought about it, perhaps that was why Gwyndolin's soul arrows seemed so much more powerful than his own. Then again, maybe the reason was something else entirely, like the amount of magical power the last born carried compared to his own. Either way, he still thought it was unfair, it was as if magic was picking favourites.

Speaking of favourites, Argon turned his gaze back to Havel as he finally reached the end of the unnecessarily high beam of crystal and onto solid land. He sighed out in relief as his boots scuffed against the stalagmites dotted around the chunk of blue.

Despite the fact that Havel was once a demi-god, or whatever was close to a god, his magical power was also quite high. Thinking normally, one would assume that when he turned undead, that power would have been greatly decreased. However, on the contrary, he seemed to possess the same reserves as when he was in his prime, if not slightly more.

Argon wouldn't assume to know just how powerful the Archbishop was in his days beside Gwyn, however, what he did know for certain was that the man wasn't fighting to his full potential. Their first battle in that tower had been tough, but nothing near what the armoured undead was dishing out now, including that shockwave which had nearly eradicated the floor beneath him.

Perhaps he wasn't fighting to his full potential because the foes they had faced thus far weren't that strong? Or perhaps it was because he was saving his strength for something greater. If the reason was the former, it would mean that the ex-Bishop even saw him as a less than worthy foe; and given how he had performed that day in the tower so many moons ago, Argon would be hard-pressed to disagree. If it really came down to it, he might not actually win against a fight with the grouchy old fart. And that in itself was a thought that mildly worried him.

Despite his abilities as the Chosen Undead, and his corruption due to the Abyss, it meant he was still weak, still insignificant next to all the other foes they would come to face. He hadn't paid much thought about it because power never interested him. However, now that it was time for him to start getting serious… perhaps changing to that approach would be wiser?

"I know that look all too well." Havel's voice broke him from his reverie and he looked up at an unimpressed Archbishop.

"Huh?"

"Power. That's what you were wracking your brain about." He said firmly as Argon walked by his side. "I don't blame you, but it's best not linger on fruitless thoughts. That path is what led to the fall of the Four Kings of New Londo."

The Chosen Undead frowned. He knew the story. Didn't like the ending.

"So, what do you suggest I do? You know as well as I that I'm not strong enough. I barely made a dent on Seath."

Havel barked out a laugh.

"Nobody can make a dent on Seath as he is now. And besides, you've always been under classed regarding power. It was by fluke that you even managed to absorb _me_ into your party."

At this, Argon offered a small smile. He was right, he was never strong enough to face the enemies he had bested in the past. In fact, it was a wonder how he had made it this far.

"Humanity is weak. That is just how they were created. Undead are the same." Havel said as they prepared to head down another beam of crystal. This one narrower and more hazardous than the last.

"However, their weakness is their strength. You, the many undead before you… even I, are testament to that. But even so…" Argon waited for him to reach the other end of the makeshift bridge before continuing. "I believe that we can grow much stronger than the other races in time."

"Yeah? How's that?" Argon asked, leaping onto the chunk on land before him. Seriously, why was every cave so precariously made? First it was the Chasm of the Abyss with its eternal darkness, natural walkways made of broken pillars and humanoid sprites of black that singe you when touched. Now there was an endless labyrinth of crystal walkways that ensured a painful fall to a bottomless pit if you didn't die smacking your head on some glowing beam halfway down. What was next? Were the Catacombs covered in skeletal tombs with walking monstrosities?

Argon shook his head. He didn't want to jinx his less than great luck.

"Patience." Havel said in a sagely voice that didn't befit how annoying he was in reality. "If you focus too much on the outcome, the process will become shoddy and the foundations will crumble."

"That's pretty deep, even for you."

"Yet there still is truth in it." the ex-Bishop grinned before observing another slippery walkway and groaned. His armour wasn't suited for such terrain.

"So, I should just be diligent. Is that it?" Argon repeated, opting to slide down the inclined walkway instead of walking down. His feet were beginning to hurt.

"Exactly. Focus on not focusing." The Chosen Undead huffed as Havel stumbled back onto solid ground. Did he realise how difficult that was, considering just who it was he was giving that advice to? Argon was a natural born over-thinker. There was no way he was going to ignore thinking about that.

"Besides, you may not realise it but you are far stronger than you allow yourself to believe."

"And you say this because?" Argon pressed, giving the man a hand as he approached an alleviated ledge.

"I am not a man of the Rock for nothing. With my age came my experience, and with that experience I crafted the many mighty soldiers the Shining City possesses even today. Such was one of my main roles as both a friend to Gwyn and Archbishop of Anor Londo."

The undead flexed his eyebrow in response. What exactly did the old man see in him that was seemingly hidden behind his own perception of himself? He knew he was stubborn man. A funny one, too. One that would rather crack jokes during a battle to make the fight more entertaining than tense. Argon also recognised how he drew strength from his will to protect those he considered dear to him. It was one of the reasons he had managed to defeat Lautrec and reclaim Anastasia's life.

Last, but not least, the Chosen Undead distinguished his rage from his anger. After being afflicted with a blight that continued to consume him little by little by chewing at his mind, and the fact that after each traumatic event he was able to remember pieces of his crooked past, he was all too clued up with how indominable he could be when he could not remain sane enough to reel in that annoying remnant within his soul.

However, all that amounted to nothing when he considered just how feeble he had been in the past. Sure, his skill with a blade or any weapon in general was unorthodox; so much so that he had bested many a legend in deathmatches before, but when in the face of true danger, against foes so immense in power that killed with a flick of their fingers he had fallen short by a landmark. Not only that, but he had lost himself to corruption, malignant thoughts and had even attempted to kill a being that he considered one of his greatest allies. And when he was _finally_ before Seath back within his chamber, he had lost it entirely. It had taken a mindless drone coloured in blue to break that tiny sense of control he had _fought_ to obtain. And then he had died just as easily as one snuffed out a candle.

With those facts and failures listed. How in the world could he even be considered to possess more potential than he already had? As it were, he was only walking with a clear mind _because_ he had burned off that insatiable lust for bloodshed by dying. And now his steely-eyed companion inserted a flicker of hope into his heart when he knew how badly Argon wanted to know that there was still a chance to redeem himself? What type of friend did that? Giving him a lifeline when he knew there was none?! Or perhaps there was one all along and the bright-eyed undead had never bothered to see it?

The two of them were ascending a mound of shining rock shaped like a small hill when Argon decided to direct a question to the ex-Bishop he hadn't had the chance to bring up until now.

"Say… why _do_ you hate Gwyn so badly?"

Havel turned his head to Argon in confusion as if he should have known the answer all along.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I get why you despise Seath. From the stories I've heard and a recount from you yourself, it's understandable why the paledrake would be on your hitlist…"

"Damn straight." Havel replied, puffing out his chest in pride. Seath deserved to die from more reasons than simply framing him and abducting innocent maidens from their homes. He deserved eternal death because of what he had done even before Lordran had been established.

Havel was no stickler for religion despite being the head of the Old Church back in the day. However, it had not sat well with him when that spineless traitor had come slithering to Gwyn with a plan to wipe out his own race due to petty jealously and anger. That black-winged Witch had seconded his sentiments that day, warning the Sunbringer and his companions that if they went through with this disgusting act of genocide, the punishment for their sins would be grievous. It was just a shame that he hadn't had the choice to stand by the goddess' side that day, his mind going blank when he saw his best friend rush into the fray like some suicidal idiot.

"But Gwyn was your compatriot," Argon cut him off from his thoughts. "He was fooled by Seath, which was why you were exiled. I'm not saying he's entirely blameless but shouldn't he at least be forgiven for such a mista-"

"Gwyn was my most _trusted_ friend." Havel growled darkly, his eyes piercing Argon's. "he and I stood side by side through _everything_, even during the harshest of times. We were inseparable as friends, dating back eons before his children were old enough to know what the sun looked like. I would have given my life to protect him and by Lloyd, he would have done the same for me. But time, unfortunately, is a dangerous tool when you live for eternity."

His gaze grew soft as regret filled his face. Havel took a heavy seat on one of the felled chunks of crystal beneath him and sighed, and suddenly it seemed like more lines, wrinkles and age began to decorate the man's bearded face.

"When the incident with Seath began, the days we knew were already beginning to grow darker. Tales and warnings from other nations and our scouts were bringing news of the fast-approaching Abyss. I was next to Gwyn as we sat amongst the other gods, discussing the best plan of action to eradicate this ominous presence capable of sucking the life out of anything it laid its icy fingers on. By the time the first sightings of Darkwraiths' in New Londo began to reach our ears, Gwyn and I had already been driven apart by stress, anger, quarrelling and more questions than we had answers for.

"I had done what I could to help him, even going as far as to command Lordran on his behalf as I instructed him to take a short repose. From there, things had taken a dive into choppy waters. First the banishment of his firstborn, then the fall of the Four Kings. We did all we could to keep it together only to face our extinction when the First Flame had begun to fade. After that, Gwyn had slowly changed from the noble god I knew and trusted. Too much grief had poisoned his mind and hardened his heart. He started to dictate orders rashly, sending Artorias to Oolacile alone, flooding New Londo in desperation, the banishing of Priscilla…" he took a moment to lock eyes with his friend before continuing. "he had grown into a shell of his former self as he tried in vain to hold onto what he had built. That was when Seath had begun his filthy tinkering."

The growl in Havel's voice when he mentioned the scaleless dragon did not go unnoticed to Argon as he watched the man stare into nothingness. He may have been only a tenth of Havel's age but he knew that look well, understood that deep-seated pain at the thought that all you did to prevent grave repercussions in the past only made things worse.

"I had remained vigilant, even when things had grown worse. Even after Gwyn had secluded himself to sitting in his throne, drowning in his own despair, I had continued my work: dispatching knights to tail the dragon's servants, conducting daily inspections of his manor. Eventually we found enough evidence to convict him for his crimes. It was just a shame that Velka had been classified a rogue deity, and an even larger pity that Seath had already sunk his claws into my friend."

Havel sighed out loudly.

"From that point, you know the story. After the failed coup, I was exiled by my own compatriot, the man I considered to be my own flesh. He hadn't shown any remorse when he sentenced me to die in that tower, nor did I feel any from him… but we both knew how that moment would forever feel like a knife through our hearts. I did not know it until after a few centuries had passed by and armies of men started to raid the ruins of our once beautiful kingdom, but word of Gwyn linking the Flame with his own soul had finally reached my half-dead ears. Perhaps that was the final nail in my stone coffin, or perhaps it was just the guilt that had flooded my deteriorating mind, because shortly after hearing that news, I had finally gone insane trapped within that building."

Argon combed a hand threw his long hair as a shaky breath escaped his lips. To think that the old man had been suffering through this much pain for nearly millennium, yet he fought harder than anyone else to stay alive instead of giving up. It was truly an amazing sight to witness from his position.

"So to answer your question of why my hatred is directed not only at that traitorous dragon, but at Gwyn himself, the answer is simple. He failed. He failed to hold onto his wits when the time came. He failed to remain calm like the King he was. But most of all… he failed to trust in the only friend willing to do _anything_ for him. He forgot where his loyalties lied and allowed himself to fall into despair. The reason I hate him isn't because he betrayed our bond, friendship is supposed to possess wrinkles like that with time. I hate him because even after everything that occurred, he lost himself to the trials placed before him, instead of searching for an anchor to focus his might and steel his will. But beyond that, the reason I hold onto this hate is because I too am at fault. I failed to be there for him, failed to barrel through all obstacles in order to stand by his side as the comrade I was. If I had only picked him up instead of putting him down with every failure, things would have turned out differently.

"But then _you_ two came along during my time of nothingness and gave me hope. I saw an opportunity to rectify my wrongs when you offered to spare my life. I knew that if I decided to hold onto my deep-seated disgust for both myself and Gwyn, I would be able to face him one last time, only to tell him that I'm sorry. Only to be there for my friend one last time."

Havel closed his eyes and hunched his shoulders as Argon placed a hand on his spine. Such respect was hard to find and even more difficult to keep. The fact that their bond still remained this close to Havel's heart was astonishing, and one of the reasons Argon felt his own convictions rise to the occasion, clearing away all the doubt he had allowed to cluster within himself.

"Gwyn's time and mine are over now, I realise that. We lost when we couldn't reconvene to power through the challenges before us. That being said, even if what awaits us within that Kiln is nothing but the vestige of the man I once called my brother, I would still like to reach it, expel my guilt and… most likely die knowing I did what I could fix what little of our bond still remained. So, to answer your question to the fullest: I hate Gwyn because I could not save him. And that is why I will give my all to aide you in reaching him… just so that I can tell whatever is left of him that I am sorry."

There was no need for further dialogue as the ex-Archbishop stood, straightened and turned to the vast cavern of crystal and emptiness ahead of them. Anything that needed to be said had already been said, and in that small moment of silence, both Argon and Havel felt that they had recovered the spark of determination they had lost. They had both recouped their drive and were ready for what was to come.

However, the sudden beating of wings and the large gusts of wind that began to whip Argon's hair around his face broke that peace as both undead turned around to behold a confusing sight.

"Uh… Argon."

"Uh… Havel."

"What exactly…" the Bishop began as he frowned at the monolithic beast before them. "Is this thing?"

He heard Argon utter a curse before he drew his great bow. With a huff, he stabbed the base into the chunk of ground they were standing on and took aim at the great creature currently spinning a ring on its body as a vast amount of energy began to collect at its centre.

"A bloody pain in the ass is what it is. But for future reference, we'll just call 'em butterflies."

"Butterflies?" Havel repeated as he equipped his shield and lowered into a defensive position.

"A _moonlight_ butterfly, to be precise." Argon corrected before nocking a dragonslayer arrow and stretching back the drawstring.

"How is _this_ thing supposed to look like a butterfly exactly?" Havel exclaimed, throwing a wide-eyed look at his companion as a large circle of concentrated magic pooled at the centre of the creature's ring.

"I don't know, its wings look pretty. What do you want me called it? A Monstrous Moth?!"

"Don't scream at me, you're the one that lacks decent naming sense."

"Oh yeah? Says the guy that names a slab of rock after a tooth."

"That's because my club _is_ a bloody tooth!"

"Like I actually believe that!"

"You've got bigger things to worry about right now, now hurry up and shoot!"

"Fine!" Argon shouted as he released the arrow.

"Fine!" Havel screamed as the arrow struck the winged monster right in the centre of the amassed pool of energy. In an instant, the power it collected became unstable as the spinning ring broke in two. Havel sighed out in relief as the explosion that came after merely punched into his shield like someone giving it a good boot.

As for Argon, he hadn't been as lucky when the butterfly had exploded at point blank range, sending both him and his bow flailing into the air before crashing into a mound of crystal, sending shattered flakes in every direction.

Havel lowered his shield and turned to his groaning companion as he rose to his feet on shaky knees.

"You doing alright there, boy?"

Argon puffed out a breath before giving him a thumbs up.

"Who the hell… are you calling boy… ya' wrinkled goat. Ooh, that hurt."

"Where did a beast like that even come from?" Havel asked as he placed his shield onto his back and retrieved his Dragontooth. The winged creature had been silent in its approach toward them, and if not for the gust of wind its sparkling wings deposited, they would have been caught unawares when it fired that blast.

Come to think of it, it was strange to see such a creature capable of even conjuring magic in the first place. There _were_ certain monsters that did possess magic within them, like the demons created in Izalith, but this one had not been birthed from fire and brimstone. Its body had been ethereal, its movement majestic, and the power it wielded was most certainly sorcery. Other than the fact that it had a twisted horn so long it could have impaled the both of them, there was but one important piece of evidence that enabled him to trace it back to its source: the creature had been made out of pure crystal. Was there no end to Seath's crazed creations?

"I think 'moonlight' is a bit farfetched." The Archbishop said as Argon regained his composure.

"The one I fought in Darkroot was all glittery, okay?" the undead countered.

"The one you fought?"

Argon nodded. "Seems the nude lizard let one of his shiny winged carrier pigeons fly away and never come back. It made its nest against some abandoned wall of stone when I encountered it. Was damn near impossible to kill without aide from a summon, too. It utilised a wide array of sorceries when I fought it, not so dissimilar to this one."

Havel rubbed his chin in thought. That would explain the name Argon had called it, although the one they had encountered was made of crystal, not glittering wings. Either way, it just meant they would have to remain vigilant in the case that more showed up. It would be a major setback if they were forced to face more than one firing off concentrated sorceries whilst on another narrow walkway.

With a few short words and a collective nod, both undead made their way forward from their pitstop, descending further into the belly of the beast, as it were until they came upon a piece of land that led to a long fall overlooking their final destination.

Using Argon's binoculars from their vantage point, they were able to scout out two more of those crystal butterflies roosting on natural ledges before the path reached a small pocket within the cave. Upon closer inspection, and with Argon's better eyesight, they were able to deduce a fog wall standing at the end of said pocket. Which meant that they were not far from rescuing Priscilla and facing off against Seath.

However, whilst there was a large island of crystal standing halfway there that was connected to a wider bridge of glowing blue crystal, there was no physical way toward it, or at least there didn't seem to be.

Out of the corner of his eye, Havel had noticed some glowing light at the edge of their supposed cliff. After he had goaded his companion into walking up to it with him, they had discovered that the 'glowing' light had actually turned out to be a message written via soapstone.

They were common within Lordran. If the ex-Bishop hadn't seen them for himself, then either Priscilla or Argon had done their utmost to explain the method of indirect communication with him. It was an out of the box method to alert others, and apparently it had helped the Chosen Undead many a time during his travels from the Undead Asylum.

If he were to take Argon's advice to heart, the way to read the floating runes laying against the floor was to step on it, thus activating the dormant magic and allowing a specific message to be read.

Now, that usually wouldn't be a problem. But this time around… it was. For the message in the ground was oh-so-conveniently situated before the two of them… floating three feet from the cliff they stood on… in _mid-air_. Havel had to wonder for the umpteenth time why luck was so cruel to him.

"Well that's bloody brilliant." The armoured undead grunted and turned back to his friend. "What now?"

"Well, we'll have to figure out a way to get across this massive expanse without the help of a friendly message then." Argon said before frowning. "Or unfriendly message. It could be either. Like that time I was in the Depths and this message on a rats corpse told me to go fu-"

"Wait a moment." Havel cut him off and peered in closer to the message hanging in the air. "Do you see those snowflakes falling all around us?"

"Of course, I see them." Argon said. "It makes absolutely no sense why there would be snow in a generally cool cave with crystals everywhere but yes, I do see the snowflakes falling from the ceiling."

Havel nodded at his agreement.

"Along with all the raindrops, candy drops and gum drops."

And just like that Havel's perception of Argon decreased significantly.

"Oh, what a day it would be."

Havel's eye twitched. Now the undead was just asking to be thrown off a cliff.

"What importance does this have anyway?"

"I'm glad you asked," the ex-Bishop replied, pointing toward their feet. "Just look. As soon as they hit the ground, they burst and tinkle like chimes."

Havel then dragged his finger up and pointed at the message on the floor. "the snowflakes are also breaking apart upon the surface of that message."

"Wait, so you think that we can stand on it?" Argon asked and his companion shrugged.

"It's only three feet away. If I hold onto your arm, you can stretch far enough to prod it with your boot."

"You sure about this?"

"Definite." Havel said firmly.

"Then pick an arm to smother."

Cracknel continued to spark off from the message as Argon's left arm was hugged as if by a needy spouse, placed near the edge of the cliff they stood on and allowed to dandle a boot over nothing. The entire scene was so ridiculous that the tink of pink staining his cheeks really didn't want to abate, but he endured it until his heel finally touched the message smack-dab in the middle.

However, the word _touched_ would have been putting it kindly. For when the undead had expected his boot to simply pass through the flat message, it had actually struck it with a resounding _clank_.

"What the…" Argon frowned as Havel pulled him back. Was he imagining things or were soap stone messages made of iron?

"Well? What does it say?" the Archbishop asked before peering over his companions' shoulder.

There, where the runic message had previously been, a new cluster of words emerged. One fortunately written in the common tongue.

Yet, again, there was another problem. As Havel scrunched up his face, pulling his wrinkles and dryer skin together like a sour prune, he still could not make sense of the message before him after reading it nearly ten times.

So, instead of losing focus, he decided to do the next best thing.

"The hell does it mean there's a path ahead?!"

Scream his frustration out to the max.

Argon frowned before actually looking at the text itself.

"It says 'invisible path'. You certain your ability to read isn't degrading, old man?"

Havel scrunched his hand into a fist before yelling at the Chosen Undead, spittle comically flying from his mouth as Argon covered his head.

"I CAN READ JUST FINE, YOU INFANTILE MORON! THE ISSUE I'M BRINGING UP IS _WHERE_ SAID PATH IS!"

The monochrome undead shook his head and ignored Havel as he continued to yammer. Choosing to focus on the oddity of the solidness in the message floating before them, Argon moved forward before stretching out his foot.

It would be hilariously stupid if he were to fall to his death doing this but after the ex-Bishop had pointed out how the snowflakes broke apart on certain areas and how that message in the floor was surprisingly hanging in mid-air, he just had to test his theory.

He would have used prism stones but unfortunately, he had run out, and using his trust throwing knives were out of the question. Those little guys where his last resort when things got messy fast in a fight. They would be better used to distract his enemy than search for this unseen path.

And so, with all the confidence in the world that he was going to most certainly go down in history as the most idiotic undead in the world, Argon's foot sped toward the space whereby more and more snowflakes burst into dust before a sudden force halted his descent.

A sudden _invisible_ force.

Havel turned his head back to the undead as the sound of him stomping his foot down reached his ears. He walked up behind the undead as he took two more steps forward only to see the most intriguing sight. Argon was now standing on nothing but thin air.

"I take back what I said before. You must be the Chosen Undead."

"When in the hell did you ever claim I _wasn't_ the Chosen Undead?" Argon retorted, cautiously taking tiny steps forward until he stood a few feet beyond the soap stone message. "As the text said, this is an invisible path, a walkway of sorts."

Havel placed his Dragontooth on his back as he balanced on the end of the cliff before poking the tip of his boot on the space before it. When his boot tapped against a clear piece of land, he experimentally placed his entire foot down to find a stable surface underneath.

"We should be good walking on the place these snowflakes fall down on." Argon mentioned, carefully waddling toward the horizontal slab of blue before them.

Havel merely scoffed.

_A labyrinth of bookcases, crystal golems that eat people and a cave with invisible bridges. Could things get any worse?_

"Oh shi-"

_CLANG!_

Havel snapped his head back up as Argon skidded backward as a large golem lifted its fingerless fist from the unseen ground below all three of them. The Archbishop paled at the sight of the beast. Why was luck so mean to him?

He hefted his Dragontooth off his back but Argon grabbed it before he could place his other hand on it before two-handing it, raising it above his head and _throwing_ it – with quite noteworthy strength that didn't entirely matter to Havel because Argon just _threw_ his Dragontooth at a bloody golem!

The weapon didn't crest over gracefully before meeting its mark, or even make a full revolution in mid-air. All it did was hurtle toward its target before abruptly smashing into the golem's featureless face, sending blue shrapnel everywhere before the great thing burst into souls and Havel's club met the invisible ground with a loud thud.

"Now, let's keep going." Argon said energetically as he walked over the club and onto the adjacent walkway.

Havel grumbled to himself before picking said weapon up and reaching his companion's side. What they saw before them wasn't any different to the picture they saw whilst on the cliff face. The only notable difference was that the shadows from the cave cleared up enough to show the forms of two more crystal butterflies nestled apart from one another. The first was right next to the spire of rugged crystal they were to approach whilst the other was perched directly on the final piece of land they needed to reach.

"Taking those down from up close will be difficult." Havel mused as he rubbed his beard. "striking one at close range will attract the other and taking a blast at point blank by one of them even with my shield won't ensure out survival. That plot of land the first one sits on isn't enough room to handle the force behind such an attack."

"Uh-huh." Argon nodded.

"Perhaps you could shoot one of them down from a distance? It doesn't seem that intelligent. If you can fell the first one then dealing with the other won't be as difficult considering their numbers will be whittled down."

"Yep. I hear ya'." Argon agreed as Havel continued his plan, the sound of clothes softly rustling entering his ears for a second.

"Then that's what we'll do. Let's not waste anymore time whilst Priscilla's life hangs in the bal- BY LLOYD, BOY! WHY ARE YOU NAKED?!

"The breeze here is nice." Argon replied in kind, doing a few short stretches as they stood on yet another narrow walkway.

"I swear if you're turning queer on me-"

"Ya' know, as much as you're not apart of the Gwyn's apostolic stronghold, you really stand firm in those age-old customs."

"Of course, a man and a man have no business copulating for many a reason. One of the more logical being that men cannot reproduce."

"If people are gay, then they're gay." Argon said before pulling on a pair of grieves with an alabaster waistcloth. "What are you gonna do really? Baptise them in the faith you renounced millennia ago?"

Havel said nothing as he watched his companion adjust his waistband before stretching his back. His eyes fell to the undeads back decorated with two shades of opposing colour. He hadn't said anything but the rapid growth of those abyssal veins on his friend's body worried his greatly. He had seen the feral rage in his eyes the time he and Gwyn's lastborn had had their spat in the Throne Room. The other signs had been there in brief intervals within the Archive's, although Argon had managed to hold himself back until he had separated from Priscilla.

And besides the forced need to crack pointless jokes every so often when the silence seemed so dense it could envelope the both of them, the Archbishop did not forget the time his companion had chosen to support him in battle via ranged weaponry rather than joining the fray as he usually did.

He knew that the undead next to him was barely hanging onto his sanity. How could he not understand the boy's plight when Havel had gone through the exact same thing many times before. And it wasn't just the abyss corrupting his thoughts, it was his own humanity as well. Whilst many would think that those black sprites where all an undead needed to remain whole and most resembling their human selves, the real truth was that humanity was a danger to all that used it, save for the many Firekeepers around.

The more you had didn't mean the more you were closer to becoming human, but actually the opposite. The more one's mind obsessed over retaining the last slivers of the self, the more those ingested monochromatic sprites began to fester something dark within the twisted souls of those that were cursed.

And the addition of abyssal corruption made it even worse. The abyss itself was a path that only lead to death and decay. According to Artorias during the fall of New Londo, the observation was that with time, corrupted patients grew into a sense of insanity paired with a dreadful mutation of malignant power. If such a blight was able to override the mind and body of a person entirely that they became nothing but flesh puppets, then that meant it had the power to poison someone seen as a lifeline physically, and in this case, it was humanity.

And Argon possessed more than just a few of those sprites within his body, even after he had been killed by Seath. Havel wondered just how the boy was managing to stand with how those pieces of black and white must be poisoning his body along with the abyss slowly filling his personality. It had already claimed half of his body, and that violet eye of his was not something the Archbishop could stare at with a blank face either.

Truthfully, he knew all too well that the reason Argon was still hanging on was because of himself and Priscilla. However, the more he forced himself to fight and battle the odds, the more he allowed this vengeful side of himself to take the front seat. A side of him that was so insatiable in rage and death that it couldn't discern friend from foe. When the time eventually came to face Seath, he knew that side would assert its dominance at some point, it was just shameful that he couldn't do anything to help.

That being said, if he could not support his friend physically, he would just use emotions to boost the boy's proper state of mind. He would aide him in reinforcing the walls in his psyche that his mask couldn't provide right now. From that point, it would be up to him to face his own demons and come out victorious but Havel didn't really fear that. He knew his comrade was a tough one, and more stubborn than Gwyn himself was. If anyone could come out on top and overcome the effects of some simple-minded parasite, it was Argon.

"Why _are_ you undressing anyways?" Havel questioned as Argon popped a joint in his back with a sigh.

"Look at the bridge before us and tell me what you see."

The archbishop looked forward. It was a large plank of crystal to walk on. One that led to a jagged island which most likely connected to another invisible bridge leading to that pocket in the cave. What was most peculiar about their method of travel, however, was the bridge itself. If he titled his head just a smidge, Havel could see that their walkway was actually placed quite skew. In fact, if he were thinking correctly, and he most certainly was, they were more likely to slide to their death if they dared to brave crossing it.

Havel's mind put the pieces together before his eyes widened and a sour expression filled his features.

_Why luck? Just… why?_

"I see you've figured it out." Argon said cheerfully as his great bow appeared in his hands again before he planted it against the crystal floor, pulled back the thick drawstring that carried a dragonslayer arrow, and let the javelin fly freely.

The crash it made against the first butterfly's horned head was strong enough to snapped off the crystal below it as the creature furiously beat its wings to go airborne.

"I'll be the distraction. Hurry up and strip." Argon said as he flexed his muscles, his bow disappearing in a wisp of light. "Make sure you take a running start else you might not make it to the other side. WHEEE!" Havel watched as the crystal butterfly hovered above the bridge, staring down at the Chosen Undead as he made a mad dash toward the island of crystal before him. The ex-Bishop caught the sigh of the creature's ring spinning wildly before a pool of bright energy filled its centre. Havel didn't need to waste any time as he began to disrobe, utilising his own bottomless box to stow away his equipment – even if he did feel like the biggest fool for listening to him ill-mannered friend.

Argon grinned as he saw the glowing circle of magic churn from the flapping insect on his right. If the lesser beast was anything like the alpha he and Beatrice had killed, then it would need a good seven seconds to charge up that beam of devastation. In that time, he could make it halfway towards the island and still give Havel enough time to undress and sprint. He was such a good companion; he hoped the old man knew that as well as he did.

As the timer in the undeads head reached seven, the crystal butterfly abruptly flapped its wings once more before a torrent of magic erupted from its centre. Argon pilled on the speed as he felt his feet begin to slip on the smooth surface below until he finally dived forward, missing the blast and rollingto his feet on the island of jagged spikes.

The beam of light blasted the bridge like a focused heavenly ray, momentarily blinding Havel as he began his run toward the other side of the bridge. Surprisingly, the bridge didn't give out or shake. Conversely, it merely reflected the energy elsewhere, nullifying the attack as the winged creature flapped back onto its perch, exhausted after using so much magic.

That was Argon's queue to strike as he drew a pair of gold and silver tracers from his bottomless box and launched at the resting mass of blue.

Havel watched in astonishment as his companion moved like an elegant dancer, flashes of gold and silver flying around his body as he made quick, deep, and devastating cuts into the body of the butterfly.

It was only after he reached the raven-haired undead that he saw the large and somewhat beautiful creature break apart and crumble from the grievous wounds upon its crystalline hide. A light burst forth from it as its souls were drawn into Argon, leaving behind nothing but its spiralled horn.

"Hey, a souvenir," Argon quirked and picked the large object up before depositing it into one of his pouches. It was almost comical seeing something that large fit into a pocket so small before disappearing entirely. But that wasn't what caught the ex-Archbishop's eye as he stared at the twin blades in Argon's hands.

"Where… did you acquire those from?" he asked calmly. He wouldn't act rashly, there was no possible way Argon would have killed a remaining Lords Blade for her weaponry. He was an idiot, yes, but also a decent undead. One that wouldn't resort to something so immoral.

Then again… what if this had been when the undead had been in more… dire circumstances mentally? Would he have been capable of killing such an elite assassin in that frame of mind? Havel didn't deny his skills as anything sub-par, so the possibility was more than likely…

"Hm? Oh, some chick with a mask and navy overalls stuffed this into my hands back in Oolacile." Argon said as he sheathed the weapons and pulled on a matching white shirt with overly long sleeves. Havel's eyes recognised the garb of the Painting Guardians but said nothing. He wouldn't question his more than capable companions' choice of armour even if it was quite odd, given the area they were in.

"It was after I did Artorias an old favour…" the Archbishop saw Argon's eyes grow distant and he silently mourned the loss of the brave Knight as well. From their time travelling, Havel had come to know of the exploits of the masked undead before he came upon the crossbreed. To heard that he had entered into Oolacile and saved Princess Dusk by slaying Primeval Man had been the greatest shock to his wise ears. The addition of him claiming to put a corrupted Artorias to rest had been equally as shocking, although he didn't doubt the word of the undead before him unless he was actively spouting nonsense for fun.

If he had indeed been _given_ that pair of rare blades from a surviving Lords Blade, in Oolacile no less, then it could have only meant that he had met Ciaran. She would have been the only person willing to follow the quiet Wolf Knight into danger, regardless of how calamitous the journey was.

Suddenly, Argon snapped back to attention as if someone had slapped him across the face before he turned back to Havel with an annoying smile on his face.

"So uh… you gonna become and exhibitionist or are you gonna change back into that armour that looks like someone in great need of a good poop?"

Instantly, Havel's sympathy turned into anger as his ears burned red.

"YOU'RE THE ONE WHO TOLD ME TO STRIP, YOU SIMPLE MINDED DOLT!"

Argon chuckled as the man rushed to get back into his armour.

"AND WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN MY ARMOUR LOOKS LIKE EXCREMENT, HUH?!"

"Just as I said, it looks like someone's really in need of release." Argon said with his hands raised in defence.

Havel ground his teeth as he hefted his Dragontooth back onto his shoulder, ready to pummel the idiot in front of him when he noticed something odd.

"Hey…" he said with a frown. "Where's the other butterfly?"

Both he and Argon looked around before the younger of the two shrugged his shoulders.

"Probably got scared by your saggy gut."

"I MAY BE OLD BUT MY GUT STILL RETAINS ITS MUSCLE MASS!"

"Or perhaps it was your obnoxious voice that made it fly away." Argon pointed out; a finger raised in sudden realisation.

"WHAT'S OBNOXIOUS IS YOU!" Havel roared as they both reached their destination.

It wasn't as difficult for them to find the second invisible bridge due to how much more snowflakes fell on this side of the cave. However, what did surprise the two of them after crossing into the final corner of the expansive mass of shiny rock was the cluster of more than half a dozen colossal shells strewn about the area.

Upon closer inspection, Havel pointed out that they looked more like clams, big one's at that, and that they seemed to be man-eating if the countless humanoid skulls piled within their lower halves were anything to go on. Argon had been brave enough to climb into one or two and stick his hand into the sticky muck holding all those skulls together, and the Bishop was equally surprised when the undead ended up pulling out titanite shards from within a few of them. They had even found a peculiar grey stone with a fossilised skull inside the last clam corpse.

Havel had been grateful for the fact that they were already dead. If they had been alive, he wouldn't have imagined how tedious it would be to fight to many in such close quarters, but the real issue at hand was what had actually killed them. However, before he could reach that conclusion, he and Argon both stopped in their tracks as they finally noticed the massive fog wall standing silently against the furthest end of the pocket they stood in.

Without further need for words or rest, both undead nodded to the other before walking through the mass of grey and silver fog, neither one even noticing the dragonslayer arrow to their left that suddenly crumbled to dust.

* * *

The Black Knight lowered the binoculars he was holding as the Archbishop and Chosen Undead both entered into the fog wall. It was a wonder that he could even peer through the lens of such an advanced piece of equipment when he possessed no eyes, but agreed that the tool had its uses, nonetheless.

It hadn't been easy downing that winged insect coated in crystal, and it had been a pure bother sniping all of those walking clams from over a thousand feet away. And yet… even as he stood on one of the islands of jagged crystal were an abundance of snowflakes broke apart and filled his armour with frozen liquid, he had to admit that it had been quite entertaining doing all that whilst avoiding detection.

He had been tasked with aiding the Chosen Undead and his comrades whilst en route toward the various Lord Souls, which he been dutiful in keeping. However, now that more and more of the half abyssal undead filled his non-existent mind, the Black Knight felt more compelled to exercise his secondary imperative, which in itself was more a path of self-discovery than evaluation of one curious undead with amber eyes.

There was no doubt from the wraith in black that his charge would complete this task. If Gwyndolin's battle with him proved anything, it would be that Argon was no undead to be taken lightly. He would be able to slay the scaleless dragon and save the Dark Sun's niece without a problem. However, with regard to the Chosen Undeads own issues, the first being his encroaching battle to remain sane… the Knight was not so certain of.

The Abyss was a different circumstance. Unpredictable with acquired, much like how the demons of Izalith had been unorthodox in their synergy despite being mindless and mutated inhabitants of a once beautiful country.

He had already seen how the undead had fared when his base instincts had taken over, the results of such carnage had been quite interesting to the Black Knight as well. But as much as the man continued to play around with his own emotions by lying to himself that everything was alright, he would never be able to overcome what he feared the most. The only way to not be afraid of the dark was to be absorbed by it. But would the undead allow such a thing to happen when he held so many things too close to his chest? Perhaps it was _because_ of the things he held dear that he couldn't allow himself to face himself properly. In that case, the only way to truly help him reach normalcy was to separate him from his supporters, and aide goad his other side to resurface completely, whether it was just a vestige of evil or not.

The result of such an occurrence would be devastating if done before his comrades, and there was a high possibility that he would attempt to kill his friends due to how uncontrollable such a force was paired with the undeads own inner turmoil… but it still had to be done. He would self-destruct otherwise. Couldn't the Archbishop and goddess see that all they were doing was allowing his dark emotions to be bottled up for another explosion of wrath?

The Black Knight didn't think they did. That being said, it was not his job to help the undead mentally, just observe and make his own judgements. As much as Gwyndolin assumed that he had come back to Anor Londo for the purpose of serving him loosely once again, he was more inclined to place his greataxe against the lastborn's throat in order to make him pay for the sins of his father.

But… he wouldn't act on that thought either. He wasn't alive to exact revenge. In fact, he wasn't alive at all, just conscious. He assumed that by watching the Chosen Undead, he could discern why it was only him that had been given this second chance at existing again. There was no other reason he would have retained his mind, after all. And what better way to serve the betraying gods than guide their prised lamb to the slaughterhouse called the Kiln of the First Flame?

Although, that wouldn't explain why he could now think for himself. Why he could decide to abscond from Gwyn's absolute order and why he felt more alive than he ever did before.

Perhaps he had been given a second chance to right the wrongs of the gods he had once served? Or perhaps, he was just here to enjoy the show?

Either way, the only thing he _did_ know was that he needed to leave this cave of pitfalls and precarious ledges. The quite was starting to put his mind into overdrive. He didn't want that, now right now at least.

As he returned to the surface and away from the Archives, he would simply wait for the Chosen Undeads safe return. Hopefully he wouldn't lose his mind by then. However, if he did… perhaps _that_ version of Argon could give him some answers?

* * *

**Yes, I lied to you again. I promised that this would be the last chapter of the Arc I've titled as 'Truth and Reconciliation'.**

**_-don't copy from Halo (*smacks Mihairu7)_ **

**Itai!**

**\- _the Arc is actually called 'Chrysalis'._ **

**Yowch. Anyway, the reason I've decided to break this up into two parts instead of a 25k chapter is because you've been waiting too patiently for the next chapter. The real reason is because I've had a lot of setbacks so I wanted to give you something rather than nothing for another fortnight.**

**Hope you enjoyed. Please review, I feed off of those and since there are a hundred and some change of you reading this (man, that number makes me giddy), I'd appreciate any more opinions. So don't be a stranger, and don't forget, I allow a LOT of flames so bring 'em if you have 'em.**

**\- _did you ever stop to think that the reason a lot of people don't review if because you actively ASK them to flame you?_ **

**Only if they have any flames.**

**_-yes, but that just makes you sound like a creep._ **

**Really?! Well, damn… can't change that now, now can I?**

**Thanks for reading, stay safe and God bless!**


	27. Chapter 27

**Zoboomafoo! And screw you, writer's block.**

* * *

Argon was a hypocrite. It was strange for him to actively speak down to himself like this, and yet it felt as simple as drinking liquid flame that would have turned any normal person's gullet to fleshy sludge.

He had always had this way of dealing with difficult matters in a sure-fire method. And that way was how he always managed to place an indifferent smile on his face despite his woes. He knew he wasn't one to bottle up emotions either, even though he had the habit of hiding them from those he was close to – perhaps that was his defence mechanism after being alone for so long?

Argon didn't store up troubles. No, he felt that he was too cool for something like that. Instead, he preferred to ignore them entirely, which was an easier way of getting through harsh disclosers of the truth. He would ignore them until they became too large to look away from and only then would he decide on a quick solution to forever expel it from his mind.

That was his way of doing things. It was simple, humble, and non-complicated in his mind. His philosophy had been even more straight to the point: if something is too complicated to understand, why bother breaking your head?

However, could he really follow that lifelong rule of easy living when said troubles resided with the missing pieces of his hazy memory? What's more, could he honestly ignore it when his own identity was on the line? Something that may or may not influence him into going hollow if he did nothing about it?

The answer was as simple as his weak set of rules: no, he could not. And that was why he called himself a hypocrite.

Under different circumstances, Argon would have been just fine letting sleeping dogs lie in their dens filled with human bones. And despite his overly curious nature to do all the things he shouldn't just because he could, he would have left _this_ particular issue alone as he sailed away from the slowly disintegrating island of misery.

But this time, the case was much more severe. It had arrived before him already fettered to his person, ready to sink him into the quicksand below if he left his mind vulnerable for but a second.

The worst part was that he knew he was coming apart at the seams. Everyone around him did. Havel, Priscilla, Gwyndolin… he hated to imagine what Laurentius' face would look like once he saw what a mess he was. What would his other comrades think of him? And whether he tried to ignore it this time or not, he knew the outcome all too well. He had _seen_ what the outcome was many times before. With Gwyndolin in the Throne Room, when he was surround by foes in the Archive. And he certainly did not forget all the nights his dreams were riddled with nightmares by that sadistic remnant of himself lurking in the dark corners of his mind, _that_ was most likely the worst encounter he faced on a daily basis.

And those clocks… those large, noiseless ticking clocks. All related to him, all apart of his own person and yet he could not venture into his past without being washed anew with those feelings of despair, rage, terror, and fury. He couldn't even manage a decent fight because he was scared of losing himself in that atrocious, yet sweet feeling of abandonment. Perhaps that was why those golems he and Havel had killed during their descent into Seath's lair weren't taking it easy on him. Did they also know of the insecurity he wore on his sleeve like a coat of arms he couldn't tear off?

Ah, yes… he had nearly forgotten. They were entering the den of the paledrake.

Not only to acquire his Lord Soul, but to rescue their comrade, his daughter, from his clutches. Priscilla. Priscilla… that name made his heart clench in his chest as the guilt flooded his system anew.

It was his fault she had been captured. There was no denying that. And the fact that he had flown into a mindless fit of rage hadn't helped. After all, he still recalled those dark thoughts he had possessed when he had seen her with eyes that sought nothing but annihilation. He remembered the twisted fantasies that had run through his head when he imagined himself ending her existence. It had been a gruesome, disgusting thought that made him want to throw up the more the thought about it. Yet, he still could not deny that the person he had become in those fleeting moments of pure carnage had been him, and him alone. It was because of the Abyss curling around his body, all that blight did was bring out the worst in him before trying to control him. Unfortunately, that vestige of Manus had been unprepared for when the slumbering beast within him had been rudely awakened. To go as far as to manipulate the very parasite that latched itself onto the host meant that whatever piece of his old self remaining within him was too dangerous to instigate. Besides, he doubted he would be able to reign it back inside of him if it did break lose again.

Logan had offered him a nugget of wisdom to filter that immense power, but he didn't like the idea of using even a pinch of it. Even though the words the Vinheim graduate had spoken to him ringed against his eardrums he could not in good conscious utter them. For to do so might mean his own undoing.

Even if the nutty sorcerer was a good judge of character, Argon was not so confident that he would be able to control himself after he let himself go.

But thinking back onto the topic at hand, they were about to face Seath. An Everlasting Dragon, the Grandfather of Sorcery. He felt something odd stir within him as he and the Archbishop approached that fog wall. It took him a while before he realised that it was fear.

Palpable, unadulterated fear that coursed through his veins like venom – paralysing his movements as his mind shut down. He may have been unperturbed when he had lost it in the paledrake's chamber, but now that he was just about sane, he couldn't stop the quivering in his legs.

It was most likely due to his current frame of mind, otherwise he would have been excited at the prospect of seeing the Duke of Anor Londo in person… maybe. But now all his masks had been used and worn to the point of crumbling in his hands. His eyes couldn't keep up with the information his brain was processing, and he felt a stone poking his heel within his greaves.

It all felt uncomfortable, unnatural. Argon didn't feel safe now that his confidence had been stripped. He was the Chosen Undead and yet he couldn't feel anymore worthless. How had he even managed to come this far with how weak he was? Was it only because he was blind to his own truth that he had found the strength to push on?

He couldn't handle the pressure any longer. Couldn't wait for another sleepless night only for his eyes to betray him and lock him into another dreary nightmare that would take something away from him the next morning; whilst also giving him something he didn't want.

What he needed was an anchor, a rock standing above the surface of salty water his tears drowned him in. He needed an ally, not just Laurentius or Griggs or Havel or Solaire, but also Anastasia. He needed her calming presence, he needed _someone's_ calming presence. One that he could personally be lulled to sleepy by. His eyes widened as his mind formed the picture of the person he was looking for.

Priscilla. He needed Priscilla. For better, for worse, it didn't matter so long as he could hide under her umbrella of peace and be lost in a sea of sparking stars and endless moonlight. She erased his inability to act, cleansed the filthy sins staining his heart. Moreover, she filled the hole in his being he hadn't known existed until now.

But she had been captured by Seath.

He felt the slow swirl of anger begin its ascension within him as he curled his hands into balls. She was trapped in that _beasts'_ clutches as he stood here worrying about his own misfortunes. Probably crying out in agony at the twisted things he was doing to her.

A flush of purple energy trailed around his right side as he walked forward.

How dare he touch what belonged to him? How dare he take away his peace? Evaporate his saving grace because he could? Well, now he would receive the judgement he deserves. After his precious gemstone was destroyed, Seath would be mortal again, just like Logan said. Then he would see what true pain is, then the predator would become the prey. He would spill Seath's ancient guts from his stomach, dissect those pretty wings from his back, harvest his tails into the blades he would use to strike down the other fallen gods that dared to call themselves righteous; he would make an example of what would occur when they crossed him and his possessions!

The loud clink of Havel's breastplate shocked Argon out of his inner monologue, forcing him to blink rapidly and let out a haggard breath.

What was he just thinking? Priscilla? His possession? Killing Seath? A literal monster of the old era? Who was this person that conjured up this sick imagination?

He looked down at his right hand and was surprised to see the virulent power of the Abyss fade in wisps of violet. If he kept this up any longer, he would be a goner for sure.

Instead, he focused his mind on Seath. They were her for two reasons: save Priscilla and acquire Seath's shard of Gwyn's soul. The former would all depend on the latter, and visa-versa. If the stories of dragons valuing treasure like their lifeline was true, Argon doubted the great beast would relinquish such a valuable and powerful possession. The undead doubted _he_ would have either if he were in the Duke's position. Then again, Seath _was_ known as the pinnacle of knowledge for a reason, it wouldn't be a long shot to suppose that simply exchanging words with the great dragon about both his daughter and his share of Gwyn's soul would garner positive results. However, that also depended on whether the paledrake would bother to listen. As it was, Argon doubted that Seath saw himself and Havel as anything more than weak bags of flesh, and he wouldn't be too far off. If that were the case, then they would be more likely to die after entering the area in front of them before either undead could open their mouths to speak. After all, despite what people may have said, Seath was still an Everlasting Dragon – the wisest of them all. There was no way they could kill him, contrary to Havel's beliefs that were driven by revenge.

That being said, if they didn't do anything soon, Priscilla would die. Their options were limited, but that didn't mean Argon was giving up. He would never give up on the one person he felt these feelings of love toward. Love… wait, love? Yes… love. That was what he felt for her, or at least he hoped.

After taking another deep breath and clothing his bare chest with the platemail of a Silver Knight, Argon turned his head to his companion. Havel offered him a nod in reply, reaffirming his original decision. Without anything more to say, the Chosen Undead drew the pair of silver and gold tracers from his sides and rolled his shoulders. Whether or not he was going to be alright after this was over, he didn't really care anymore. What took priority was saving _her_, making sure _she_ lived another day, not him. He could fall into a bottomless pit and be consumed by loss so long as it meant she could wake up again to the feeling of the fresh breeze against her skin. Because if anyone deserved to live the most in this world, it was people like her, like the Firekeepers, like the remaining forces of humanity still fending off the odds for the children that were barely able to understand why fish lived in the sea.

He was on this journey because of his debt to Oscar, he knew that all too well. But since accepting that dying wish, Argon had found much more than he had hoped. He had found friends, comrades in arms, innocents to protect; and above all else: belonging to fight for. He may have been the Chosen Undead but this was no longer about him anymore, not when he had so much to protect like this.

He finally realised it, too. His destiny, his rocky road to his eventuality that fate saw fit to make him suffer through wasn't to link some ancient flame and return to ash himself, it was to save the lives of those who couldn't save their own. And if that meant forsaking his own life, then he would do so gladly. He would do so even if his darker side took over. He would hammer that belief into himself, remember the reason why he suffered, and acknowledge the good that is to come from such sacrifice. The words that chapel woman had spoken to him when he was boy lingered in his mind endlessly. And with how sincere that woman had been. No, with how sincere his _mother_ had been, how could he simply ignore it when he knew it was the truth?

He may not have faith in any of the gods he knew of, but if there was even the slightest chance he would be victorious by trusting in a promise his mother once made to him, who believed in a deity she didn't even know the name of, he wouldn't fail to grab onto that thread of opportunity with both hands.

Because at the end of the day, he didn't matter when it was his loved one's lives at stake.

As Argon passed through the fog wall with Havel, he couldn't help but feel his mind tickle with remembrance. He was aware of how dangerous it was to allow these sudden bursts of reverie to occupy his mind when he was in a most precarious position, but he couldn't allow his unease to remain any longer. He needed to know who he really was, _what_ he really was. Who these strange people were that flogged his past, and possibly understand how he came to be who he was today.

So he allowed himself to be lost in a sea of black just one more time as his body was calmed by the silvery clouds of fog around him. This time, he would not lose himself to whatever was banging against the walls of his mind like a savage animal, even if this particular memory seemed like the worst of the lot.

He would fight, push, and struggle to retain who he was because there were people who depended on him to remain strong. He would assert his dominance as the current Argon because the past him had already had its chance. Now, he would take the reins.

He just hoped what he was about to see wasn't filled with the despair he knew it was.

* * *

When Argon opened his eyes again, he was surprised to see that he was in a familiar white room filled with noiseless clocks instead of the usual hazy reverie of the bustling dutchy in Carim. In addition to the spontaneous appearance of his mindscape, the undead also took note of two distinct characteristics that weren't there the previous times he had visited.

The first was the nauseating ichor dripping from thin air around the endless white area, climbing up invisible walls and hanging onto some of the clocks like a heavy coat of disease. The second was more of a curiosity than the former; the form of himself, standing but a few feet away in his usual spot. It was the same person that tormented him every night in his dreams, the remnant of his past self that still refused to leave – or was it because he _couldn't_ leave that he had stayed behind? Argon couldn't actually remember.

The oddity about said figment of his imagination, however? The other him was, for once, not grinning maliciously.

_"Why am I here?"_ Argon questioned the vestige, anxiety forming in his chest. He knew that time didn't move whilst he was in this environment, he had tested it many a time in the past as his other self inflicted an endless torrent of dark memories into his battered psyche. Yet, even so, it did not stop him from worrying about his imprisoned comrade, or fear that he would be too late to save her if he remained here any longer.

_"Send me back. I don't have time to waste here with you!"_

Argon's voice carried a quivering wilt to it as the noise echoed across the room to splash against his other self's face. To his surprise, the dark vestige barely twitched an eyebrow his way in reply. If anything, the blank stare he was giving the undead only seemed to intensify the more he attempted to speak to himself.

The two stood there in utter stillness, the only sound being made by the dripping violet sludge slowly coating his mindscape. It felt odd to the worrisome undead, that the quiet between his darker half and himself was both tense and loose all at the same time. It almost made him want to scream just to release his unease, although they both knew such a simple act would never fix a difficult problem.

When what felt like a full hour had passed – which was most likely just a few long seconds – his other half titled his head to the side casually, his gaze still fixed on Argon as if he were disappointed in his silent appraisal.

**_"You look so pathetic my eyes feel like bursting."_ **

A vein on Argon's forehead twitched.

_"If you brought me here just to insult me, I swear I'm gonna kick your ass."_

**_"Really? I would have thought verbal abuse would be enough to pull you out of this useless hole you've fallen into. I suppose I was wrong in my assumption."_ **

_"Damn straight!"_ Argon shouted before walking forward and into his other self's face. What stared back at him was pity and disgust.

_"Now if you're done screwing with my head, send me back out there so I can-"_

**_"So you can what?"_ **his darker half interrupted, taking a step forward in sudden aggression. **_"Fail? Peter out? Whimper like the dog you've made yourself to be so that Seath can kill you? Are you so blinded by petty inadequacy that you cannot even conjure up enough motivation to act like you can fight?!"_ **

Argon was forced to take a step back as his other self advanced. This was so different to his past experiences with the remnant of himself that he felt nervous to even retort. As if the confidence in his chest had just been sucked out by this enraged part of himself. It had him thinking back, comparing his current self to the him that was suddenly growling at him dangerously whilst the space around them slowly decayed from the inside out.

But what caught his attention more than just the vast differences between the meek him and the loud him was that this encounter seemed to be much different in approach. In the past, his other self was cocky, confident and almost always made Argon fear for his life when he would command those noiseless clocks to wrap around him and feed his mind with images from his morose human life.

Now, however, his darker side seemed a bit ragged. His hair wasn't as luscious, his breathing was irregular. What's more, the way he exploded in anger seemed to lack the usual spite he would have expected from a being that had once been an assassin of a nihilistic group of nutjobs. This felt more personal – more so than usual – and with each word spoken, Argon could feel an uncharacteristic hastiness.

**_"You have wrought my last strand of patience, you spineless swine."_ **Argon took another step back as his other self grabbed a nearby clock and broke of the hour hand. Almost immediately, both of them felt a rush of emotions and memories flit about them as the timepiece bled with images and colour. Still, his darker side continued to pace toward him, a grim look on his usually arrogant façade.

**_"Watching you pity yourself like some tragic hero has been a deplorable practice that has me _burning _with the desire you just tear you apart, and _yet _I know I cannot harm you as I am._" **

Argon's breath grew short as he felt his other half's anger flare, only for the remnant to pick up the pace and start running toward him.

**_"You are an insult to the name Argon. An asphyxiation to the persona that was fought so difficultly to attain."_ **_Argon stumbled backward as his other half swung the broken hour hand his way, the point of the object missing just shy of a grievous cut to the temple._

**_"A filthy disgrace to what _we _are. And yet you still stand before me unknowing of your own transgressions that have led to this moment of rapture."_ **Argon stepped in a puddle of purple ichor and slipped, tumbling onto his rear as his other half stared down at him distastefully, multicoloured eyes burning in rage.

**_"By wearing this feeble mindset you've created for yourself, you've allowed us to become compromised, and as you cower from me you allow more of this accursed blight to infest our otherwise clean temple."_ **

_"Argh!"_ the undead screamed as he was kicked back. The boot to his face didn't hurt as much as the amalgamation of pain it contained. As Argon rolled onto his haunches to stare back at his snarling self, he noticed the discrepancy too late. With the abyss corroding the clocks around them and the invasion of unsightly goop it was a wonder he hadn't noticed it before. The fact that he was here wasn't due to his darker half's need to make him suffer more, but a failsafe to prevent an eventuality he hadn't thought would ever occur.

Argon's other half was beginning to fade.

**_"So you finally see it."_ **the other Argon growled, lunging forward to wrap his hand around Argon's throat before lifting him up. The undead choked as he was suspended by a vice-like grip, his legs kicking up a frenzy as he attempted to regain consciousness. He didn't know what was worse, the fact that he was about to be killed in his own mind by himself, or the fact that as he was being choked, he felt the blazing agony his other self was unintentionally transferring into him. It was scorching, as if someone had poured acid into his wounds and sealed it with stiches. It coursed around his body like cruel snakes, reaching every nerve ending and cell he possessed.

**_"Your weak will has destroyed this sanctuary, ruptured my control and brought us to the end. I had thought that after countless nights of remembrance, you would at least gain a _fledgling _of the power necessary to overtake my role, but no. You've decided to hollow out instead, forsake the second life you were giving _despite _holding more than just the might of the Lithecore within you."_ **

As more of the abyss began to pool around the two of them, Argon watched as his other half conjured the last remaining clocks not doused in dripping death to stretch out and bind Argon's hands and feet. The hand around his throat eased up and the undead could almost see the exhaustion written on his other self's face as he stepped back.

**_"Even as you wear that murderer's ring on your finger, you still forget your strength, still refute your potential. If only _he _could see you now, I'm sure the punishment inflicted would be grand."_ **The other him sighed out on shaky knees. **_"But that will surely come soon. A shame I will not be there to witness it, the coming together of both halves."_ **

Argon struggled as he was bound tight, body strung out like a skinned animal to dry as his other self lifted the broken clock hand to eye level.

**_"This blasphemy of the self cannot be allowed to continue, you fool. I have watched in trepidation as you grew from your escape from that Asylum, acquired ferocious power, awakened our previous self, and even came close to purging divinity. At the time, you were not the human that served under Lord Stein, but the undead reformed in flame and ash. You possessed the necessary tools to leave this sickening destiny behind and I was willing to let it be… _however. _"_ **

The other Argon groaned as more ichor burst into their shared mindscape, absorbing the whiteness around it in rapid succession.

**_"However, now… you've become less than elementary. Losing your mind to this worthless abyss, swimming in your bottled-up devastation, and forgoing clarity for overwhelming odds of a traitorous _lizard _? You are wretched, pitiful, and sad to look at."_ **

_"What would you have me do, then?"_ Argon replied weakly. " _I'm not the killer from that town I was tortured in. I'm not the Chosen Undead everyone believes will link the Flame and save the world either. I am weak, lost and tired of fighting when I know only sorrow awaits me in the end."_

Argon clenched his jaw as the tears fell down his face, the pain of the burden he was forced to carry now forcing his head to droop. His chest felt tight as he reminisced on what he had been through to get here, and even though he had achieved much, he had also lost much. That loss was the reason he could not stomach his fate any longer, why fear and despair filled him when he was to pit himself against a being that had lived for eternity.

_"You think that living through Stein's will and the Undead Curse has been easy? Whilst you sit here in my head, surrounded by every memory I have, I've had to fight my way to remember, to clutch what sanity I still have. What makes it worse is that I actually know how dark my existence has been, and that's why I locked them away in the Asylum! And now I've been through **worse**. Suffered death like never before, survived Primeval horrors, and now I have to wage war against my own mind so that I don't revert back to that side of me. You have no idea how hard I fought! No idea the pain I suffered just to get **here**! And now you chastise me for wanting to run away? Seath is a **monster**, not some foe I can simply defeat with a sword and witty comments. There's no way to win, and even if there were, what chance do I even stand of winning?! Don't you see? It's impossible! I'm going to die before I even manage to-" _

**_SLAP!_ **

Argon stared shocked at his feet as he felt the sting against his cheek. When he looked up again, his other self was sighing out in disappointment, a hand on his brow.

**_"And _that _is why we are dying from the inside out. You hold the knowledge of the Lithecore within you and yet you still rely on luck. The limitless potential of the Undead compels your soul to grow to the size of a god yet you halt its progression with doubt. And you stand before me with convictions to protect those dear to you yet you allow this abyssal corruption to control us both. How far you have fallen."_ **

Both Argons stared at one another in silence, one too conflicted with guilt to speak, the other empty of life to bother trying. And yet, it was clear what needed to be done.

Argon's other self sighed out tiredly. **_"If you cannot realise who and what you are despite my concurrent efforts, then you are of no use to this vessel. Remain here and wallow in resignation, I have done what was necessary yet it seems I have failed."_ **

The other Argon gripped the broken timepiece in his hand tighter before plunging it into the chest of the Argon bound before him with a loud _shlink._ Argon's eyes widened as a mass of memories began to flood his head as he stood within his head, his life flashing before his eyes.

**_"You are not fit to call yourself Argon, thus I will your take your place… whilst I still can."_ **The other Argon rubbed his tired eyes. **_"Perhaps it will be enough time to break this worthless shell you've concealed yourself within."_ **

As the other him began to walk away, Argon struggled in his inky bonds, terror filling his voice.

_"Don't do it! You can't win!"_

The other him turned back to snarl at him, and for a moment Argon himself wondered just how pitiful he must look right now.

_"You'll kill us both, I tell you. That monster is immortal, how would you even hope to **scratch** him?! It's futile, meaningless! A battle fought vainly!" _

Argon heaved in dread-filled breaths as his other self merely offered him an amused look, a glint of his prior edginess returning as he spread his arms wide.

**_"That fear is the reason I choose to fight in your stead. And if I must kill us both just so that you can break out of this self-inflicted spell, so shall it be. Dragon or no, Seath is merely an obstacle in my way. If, by chance, he proves to be more than even I can handle, at least it will prepare you for the inevitable reunion, our death be damned."_ **

His other self turned on his heel and rolled his shoulders. And after a sigh, Argon witnessed as his other self's entire right side burst into a frenzy of abyssal energy.

**_"But remember one thing, Argon,"_ **his darker self breathed before walking into nothingness. **_"This will be _nothing _compared to my REAL self. For there are much stronger beings out there than the Ancient Lords…"_ **

* * *

The sound of loud footfalls and the parting of magical mist was the first thing that alerted her senses that she was not alone. The second sign came in the form of two distinct scents. One was old, nostalgic like the tingle of dust in one's nose after basalt was ground to particles. The other was fresh, earthy like the morning dew of Spring. However, she also detected a hint of something foul that attempted to smother the smoother tones below it. It was only after her glittering eyes had found what they were looking for that she understood why.

"Argon! Sir Havel!"

Both undead stopped a foot in front of the fog wall they had just passed through, eyeing both the crystalline jail she was suspended in, as well as the array of humanoid bodies scattered around the cold space, petrified in pure black stone.

"Ah, there she is." Havel breathed a sigh of relief as he pointed to her cage, taking a jolly step forward as he did so.

"No, wait! Please stop!"

The Archbishop froze mid step with a frown on his bearded features as he stared at her in confusion.

"Wha? Why? I thought this was a rescue." He garbled out with furrowed brows.

"You must leave this place, now." Priscilla said desperately as she gripped the bars of her cage.

"We just got here. There'd be no use leaving without you, dear." Havel replied with a scratch of his head.

"NO!" she screamed, causing him to take a step back at the aggression in her voice.

_Just what did that scaleless fiend do to make her like this?_

"You have to leave. Father will be here any minu-"

"Is that right? Then I'll just take a seat whilst he takes his time to get here."

"Sir Havel, _please_ listen to me."

"My dear Priscilla, _please_ understand me: I'm not leaving this place until I have you by our side, and, no offence, your vile father's soul in my hand. I've waited long enough for this moment to just leave."

The crossbreed gripped the bars tighter as she cast a glance toward Argon – who had been suspiciously quiet from the moment he and Sir Havel had arrived.

She watched as he absently poked a sizzling hole in the floor with his boot, mild curiosity across his face as he watched the swirl of blue and dark violet energy rise from the ground.

Right then and there, she knew something was off. For one, he was not acting as he usually would, placing this quiet disposition as a warning bell for her. And two, his entire right side was ablaze with purple aura, almost resembling abyssal flames.

"Argo-"

"I suggest you back away from the open space, Havel."

Said Archbishop turned around to question his companion.

"And why is th-" his eyes widened as he saw the violet flames swirl around Argon as his hands gripped his weapon tighter. Suddenly the air felt off, and the quiet was deafening, enough so to make the hair on his neck stand on end. And this time, it wasn't due to the masked undeads shenanigans – even if the man's voice sounded much darker than his usually bright persona.

"Didn't you _notice_ it already?" he asked as he drew his gold and silver tracer's.

"Notice what?" Havel replied, two-handing his Dragontooth and tensing his muscles. Argon answered with a snide smirk, revealing sharp teeth. For some reason, that look just set the armoured undead off as he whipped his head around aggressively, nerves making the blood rush to his head as Priscilla's tail curled in on itself, aware of the impending climax she knew wouldn't be pleasant.

Argon's voice rang out in the silence like the howling wind on a cold night, eerie and terrifying.

"It's a _trap_."

That was when all hell broke loose.

"Ahh!" Havel screamed as a grave of crystal spears the size of plinths rose from the chilly ground like Darkwraiths, piercing both his armour and his flesh as he was rocketed into the air.

Priscilla gasped at the attack as she cried out her friend's name.

The Archbishop was lifted twelve feet in the air, his body slowly being corrupted by the curse residing within those shafts of mineral glimmering with a wispy trail of foul magic. Unfortunately, the momentum he had conjured due to such an attack had left him vulnerable to defend himself as gravity began to carry him back to solid ground. And that was when the Golems emerged.

Large, hunched over, and cobalt were they that grew pointy swords from their fingerless hands and raised them to the sky. Havel felt immeasurable agony as gravity impaled him on one of said Golems, the force of both his weight and his speed causing the hunk of rock to crater the ground as both of them went down.

the remaining three that had formed from seemingly nothing turned their heads his way, the closest cocking back its sword arm to pierce his unguarded face.

Fortunately, before the golem could even advance, its head was shattered to pieces by a well-timed dragon slayer arrow that impacted like a speeding cannon ball. Argon breathed out as the great bow in his hand evaporated into a sliver mist before he lit his left hand in chaos fire and tossed the orb at the next foe.

The lava condensed into portable size spilled out like blood as it hit the golem rushing toward him. In a turn of luck, said lava had also managed to splash onto the one behind the first, before a loud sizzling echoed around the room. The Golems stumbled under the thick substance they were covered in, and Argon took the brief distraction to discard the cuirass on his chest and don a pair of black sorcerer gloves before charging forward with his tracers drawn. Now that this body was under the control of the same him that had given Gwyndolin a hellish workout, he might as well get comfortable in his skin whilst he still reigned control over both the abyss wrapped around his side and the pathetic persona he had watched flail about like some infant.

Allowing the powers of the abyss to fill his bones, he dashed toward the Golem in the vanguard as the stalagmites receded, ducking under the clumsy hook it sent his way before slicing under the arm with a flash of silver. When his momentum reached its peak, he spun on his heel and arced the other tracer downward, cleaving off half of the sentient crystal's head. The mass of rock stiffened as the boiling lava seeped into its body before it burst, sending blue shrapnel everywhere as the last Golem finally got to its feet.

Argon gave the thing a side smirk before rushing in again, executing the beast in the same manner as its partner but adding a solid elbow to its cracked chest for good measure, smiling widely as the hunched over crystal shattered to pieces.

Priscilla watched him move from up above, her eyes transfixed as he cleared the area of their ambushers before allowing himself a satisfied chuckle. He was obviously under the effects of the abyssal corruption and his own primal anger, yet he seemed to be more in control than she had thought. And whilst that was a good thing, she still couldn't help but shake off the feeling that something about him was still amiss. However, she decided to put that in the back of her mind as she called out to him, anxious to send him away from this place.

"Argon, please go. Take Sir Havel and run. It's not safe, especially after what has already occurred."

"Run?" Argon mimed in a colder voice than he should have had. "Why would I want to do _that_?"

She watched him walk up to a gasping Havel who still had a crystal sword sticking out of his abdomen. With a flourish of his tracers, he sheathed them on his hip before reached behind him for his Estus flask and tipping some of the contents into the Archbishop's open mouth as he simultaneously wrenched the pillar of rock out of him.

Havel sat up with a groan as the hole in his chest sealed over immediately. "Could you _be_ any gentler?"

"Get mortally wounded again and we might find out." Argon replied, earning him a growl. The undead smirked, his amber eye glinting in the light as he walked away from the man and hefted up his discarded Dragontooth. It really _did_ feel wondrous to be let out again, and he wasn't talking about the times his current him had allowed anger and fumes to overwhelm himself to the point of annihilation. With a frown, he gazed at the sleek blackness of the weapon in his hand before passing it to Havel – all this me, myself and I business was beginning to get complicated. He would just settle for calling the him he had trapped within their mindscape the 'real' Argon, and himself the 'past' Argon.

"Both of you don't understand the gravity of the situation." A certain crossbreed's quivering voice altered his train of thought as he and the ex-Bishop turned to look at her.

"My father seeks to use you both in his gross experimentation, not kill you." She explained from her suspended cage, making elaborate motions with her hands. "As if that wasn't the worst of it, he intends to withdraw my essence in an effort to reinforce the Primordial Crystal."

"Not if I have something to say about it." Havel barked, pulling his lips back into a snarl. He wouldn't allow that detestable lizard to lay his hands on Priscilla, never again. He had waited a lifetime for this moment, for his chance to right his wrongs and exact his revenge on the beast that took away his status, his kingdom, and his best friend from him all those centuries ago. It didn't matter how Seath intended to fight them, whether in person or with his cowardly tactics, he would still be defeated before the day ended. And Havel would use any means necessary to ensure his victory, even if it meant sacrificing his arms, legs, soul, and sanity to ensure the traitor of the Dragons returned to the broken archtree he was born in.

"This game of cat and mouse has gone on long enough. It's time your father pays for his wicked deeds with his blood, and after we shatter his ancient treasure, his life will be in our hands."

"How about you _find_ said crystal before you start talking big." Argon commented, looking around the misty area, his mind alert for the slightest disturbance.

Havel harrumphed before scanning around the room, effectively silencing Priscilla even as she still wore a look of unease on her small face. The ex-Archbishop admitted that he didn't like to put her down like this, and if this were any other scenario, he would have listened to her words. However, this was his own honour he was fighting for now, and the fate of the world as they knew it. No matter how much she begged him to leave her behind, he would not acquiesce. She was their third party member, after all, he couldn't simply leave her for dead; not after everything they've been through.

At the shimmer of something in the distance, the armoured undeads eyes narrowed and he zeroed in on something against the far side of the wall. It was a tall, slender object, almost invisible due to the thick mist that hung close to the floor and walls. He took a few steps forward until he stood in the centre of the room, next to the petrified bodies of more than a few humans – of whom he wondered how they had not been destroyed after the ground had erupted in javelin-sized spikes.

"Aha!" he exclaimed before pointing, and both Argon and Priscilla turned their gazes west to see a tall crystal standing a good few yards away from them. "There it is."

"That's the Primordial Crystal?" Argon asked in disappointment. He would have thought something that valuable to a naked dragon would have been kept somewhere more secure. And besides that, this unique shaft of rock seemed very much subpar compared to the history behind it. After all, this thing was literally his height, and from its size he guessed that it wouldn't take much force to shatter. He had been expecting something a little more… dragon sized. An ancient crystal capable of giving one immortality depicted an object of immense power, and as such its girth should have emphasised that. But perhaps some things were better off breaking the status quo and showing itself for what it really was. In this case: a glowing crystal.

He wasn't really complaining, either way. This would just make things easier for them when Seath eventually made his appearance. However, for him to just place his prized possession in the same room as his captured daughter, in plain sight, where _anyone_ could have access to it? It sounded quite contradictory to the intellectual prowess of one scaleless drag-

Argon's heterochromatic eyes widened.

"Now, I'll just be breaking this icicle that holds the immortality of my nemesis and then we'll be off to go dragon slaying." Havel cheered, taking slow steps forward to savour the moment. "I never understood the excitement Ornstein and Gough would find killing flying lizards, but now I think I do. The hype of hunting the one beast that is a nuisance to more than just one party. Added to the fact that said beast is cornered, with nowhere to go, makes the hunt feel all the more enjoyable!"

Priscilla watched as her companion approached her father's source of invulnerability. She had truly never seen it in person, and it was a shock to her that such an item would be left in plain sight like so. However, when she thought about the ways of her father, the wisest dragon in all the world, she doubted he needed a reason to actually protect it. Not when he was one of the most powerful beings in the world with a labyrinth of pathways filled with his minions to ward off intruders.

Even so, if her comrades would not heed her warnings of the terror her father would bring when he arrived, then they would need to smash that crystal to pieces quickly. Otherwise there would be no stopping her father.

"Wait." Argon's voice rang out like a gong being sounded atop a mountain. Havel sighed before turning back, an annoyed look on his face.

"What is it now, boy? Do you have a witty remark to land in before I do your job for you?"

"Honestly, you're enough of a joke for me to say anything at all." The undead yawned.

Havel felt his face heat up in anger. "Get on with it then and say your bit. We don't have all day! And what's with that vile energy you're using? Did you actually take that foolish sorcerer's advice to channel it into a weapon?"

"Don't you think this is too _easy_?" Argon questioned. Havel gave the question some thought before turning back toward the Primordial Crystal.

"First the ground spikes, then the Golems and now the appearance of the crystal meant to hold Seath's immortality, casually placed within our grasp. It sounds like a flimsy ploy to me."

"He's right." Priscilla quirked, looking at Havel with a tense frown. "Father is meticulous in his actions. Anything he does holds an air of purpose to it, whether small or large. Above all, his love for calculated tactics and deceptions take the forefront of his mind. It would be wise to exercise caution."

"Well, I guess there's no helping it." Havel murmured, moving back toward Argon as he thought about it more. From his time with the beast during the Ancient War, Seath was their best tactician and strategist. Moreover, he was an advisor to Gwyn during their reformed attack against the Dragons. It would be a perfect deduction to assume that the dragon was merely toying with them whilst he remained in the shadows.

"Where do you suppose he is then?" the ex-Bishop looked at his undead companion.

"If _I_ were an oversized and scaleless dragon, my greatest hiding spot would be in plain sight." Argon tapped a gloved finger against his chin as he stood in front of a cursed husk that was once a human. "And if my carefully woven net of traps were to be used up, I would have no other choice than to arrive in person to deal with the irregularities, until I formulated another plan to dupe my uninvited guests, that is."

"Then where could that bastard be?" Havel huffed out, scanning the room.

"Hmm." Argon thought about it for a moment. Seath, whilst just another dragon with a handicap, was a master of sorcery. As such, he would have had endless hours to study every facet of magic, as well as its many uses of stealth. It was possible that he could have discovered a way to blend in with his surroundings like the various spells from Oolacile do. However, that theory was flawed since he couldn't exactly find any foreign traces of magic via his right eye.

He could have just been residing somewhere else within the cave they stood in, and perhaps it was only a few moments from now that he would enter behind them. Yet again, though, that thinking was still flawed. Seath was a traitorous dragon, yes, but he was still a dragon, nonetheless. He would be one to make a grand spectacle of himself if he were to arrive in person, and that only held a few options as to how.

One way would be via the open hole behind them which they had entered by. The other would be via teleportation magic. Argon knew it existed since Gwyndolin would have obviously still been in contact with the Duke for reasons pertaining to the Shining City, and since Seath was a genius without legs, it wouldn't have taken him long to figure out how to replicate it. The last option was to simply smash his way in.

It was a crass method, Argon agreed, however, if the dragon didn't really care for them much – which he honestly didn't – there would be no need for him to waste time with grand entrances. Just dramatic ones. Even so, the sight of a scaleless dragon just simply smashing through crystal walls to capture and torture them was just… well pathetic to imagine. In fact, it sullied the name of the famous entity. There was no possible way the dragon would choose that option.

And then Argon felt a sudden presence he knew could only belong to one being before he promptly roundhouse kicked Havel. The Archbishop flew backward with a _whoop_ as the Chosen Undead dived to the side just before a falling shaft of mineral could smash him into paste.

Havel rose to his feet, about to scream at his idiotic companion when he heard a shrill roar that spiked the adrenaline in his veins. Both men and Priscilla looked up in time to see the titanic size of Seath free fall from above them before slamming into the ground, shaking the entire cave with the impact of his fall.

Seath uttered another roar of pure power, filling the air with his fury as all three of them felt the strength and might of the Duke of Anor Londo, Father of Sorcery and Wisest of the Everlasting Dragons.

Argon merely deadpanned as his expectations plummeted further. A wide array of entrances and the dragon chose the least impactful to scare them shitless? What a disappointment this battle was turning out to be, and they hadn't even _begun_ as yet.

"Aaargh!" Havel roared out as he sped towards the paledrake, Dragontooth raised above his head. Seath merely nudged the air with his snout before a colossal tail reached out and flicked him back.

Argon blinked in surprise as his companion was sent hurtling back like a cannon ball, crashing into the far wall with enough force to form a crater of his body. After a few moments of intense silence, Havel groaned as his hand emerged from the hole in the wall, puling himself out as he limped forward, obviously wounded.

The Chosen Undead narrowed his eyes in thought as he reached into one of his pouches and withdrew a grey ring. He had known that Seath would be strong, not due to his proficiency in magic but because of his lineage as an Everlasting Dragon. His size alone showed how powerful his physical attacks would appear to be, however, to see the blind dragon attack with such accuracy despite being lost of sight was impressive.

This would draw two conclusions to the half-crazed undead. One, that Seath's hearing was finely honed to catch the slightest of sounds. And two, he was most likely also extending his abilities to sense the aura in the room. That being said, Argon would need to exercise a bit of caution moving forward. And on the of the best ways to do so would be for him to utilise Lithecore training his real self refused to accept.

As the Slumbering Dragoncrest ring reached the base of his middle finger, Argon breathed in a euphoric sigh as the additional magic struck his veins and fuelled his body. He felt it cover his being as the magic muted the sounds emitting from his body. It flowed methodically, silencing each and every piece of him, the bass of his heartbeat, the intake of his breathing, the rustling of the material of his leggings, even the ringing of his tracers against the air.

He felt as if he was at the bottom of the sea, the only noise available being his own thoughts. Argon couldn't help but noiselessly laugh as he stalked toward his enemy, Vinheim had certainly done their magic proud.

Havel wheezed as he felt his broken ribs brush against his organs. That blow had been stronger than he had anticipated. Faster too. He growled out, crushing a humanity sprite in his hand to repair the damage as he watched Argon race across the cold ground toward Seath.

It was strange seeing his companion like this, warping the Abyss to his needs as if it were a mere extension of his will, but he could pester the fool about it later. What he needed to focus on right now was Seath.

With crack of his neck, Havel lifted his Dragontooth once more as he went to meet Argon. He saw the undead dodge a swipe from Seath's large claws before twin flashes of silver and gold entered his vision. Whether the dragon felt the pain from those tracers that looked awfully familiar or registered the amount of crimson blood flowing out of his side, the Archbishop didn't know. What he did know was that it was about time he contributed to this Smiting of the Everlasting.

The dragon heard him coming – it was obvious he would at this point – and wound his arm back to swat him away again. The ex-Bishop huffed in annoyance, there was no way he was going to be fooled twice. He shouldered his heavy weapon and reached behind him for his talisman. With a quick utterance of words and mild concentration, Havel timed the moment of Seath's swipe before he allowed the built-up pressure in his fist to collapse.

"Hah!"

The release of pressurised air and magic worked better than he had expected it to. The moment Seath's hand entered his range, he allowed the transparent orb to explode, sending the very crystalline ground beneath him to ripple outwards, creating a jagged border of spikes.

Seath hissed in annoyance as his hand was blasted back, knocking into the wall behind him. He was about to attack the armoured undead again when Argon fired off another dragon slayer arrow against his muzzle, causing the beast to wail in anger. Havel merely grinned cheekily as he two-handed his Dragontooth and jogged forward.

At this point, it didn't matter whether the paledrake could regenerate his limbs or ignore pain. What mattered was that they could hold their own against such a foe of immense power. Havel flicked his gaze sideward and noticed the scaleless beast's tails lifting up in response to Argon's antagonization. With a short burst of speed to his feet, the ex-Bishop reached the closest appendage.

"Eat this, filth!" a second later, and Havel delivered a great wallop to the base of Seath's right tail, his weight and strength causing the pale thing to collapse into the ground as Seath roared in agony and cock his head skyward. Again, Havel smiled to himself. That one _must_ have hurt.

His moment of smugness began to fade, however, when both he and Argon felt an immense build-up of magic coming from the paledrake. Havel raised his shield as he backed away from his nemesis only for the great dragon to rear his head in Havel's direction and fire off a beam of magic so bright it almost blinded him.

The ray of pure white energy struck his shield like a blow from an armoured giant, and he felt his boots skid across the floor as he attempted to redirect the blast in another direction. He realised his mistake too late when a sudden clinking of crystal met his ears and he felt the searing hot pain of a curse force its way into his bloodstream.

Havel looked down at the newly formed stalagmites piecing his body. Whilst not as potent as the great spikes he had been struck by previously, these little devils were numerous in their assault, and their bite stung worse than the crystal sword that had impaled him.

He growled as the beam of energy dissipated, lifting his boot up before stomping down on the crystal below him. He was going to be seriously pissed off if this continued for another few hours.

"What's the matter, getting _tired_ in your old age?" Argon's voice jerked him back into focus and he turned to see the undead sliding under a strong backhand from Seath before he twirled, lit the room up in silver and gold, and scored twin gashes alongside the dragons front that bled profusely only to close up a few seconds later.

Their current strategy was getting them nowhere. Havel turned his head back to the Primoradial Crystal before pulling out his shield once more. They needed to smash that crystal already.

"Hmph! As if. I'm more alive than anything else in this world."

"Then get steppin', old man." Argon smirked, doubling back around Seath and slashing against the middle of his tail. Havel had to admit that it was curious to watch. Argon seemed to move with such fluidity for a man who had spoken down about his own skills moments ago. What's more, he appeared to be bypassing Seath's incredible sensory abilities. If the blind swipe of the dragon's arms and tails were anything to go by, it seemed he couldn't detect the undead at all – except for when he insulted his companion.

The ex-Archbishop observed his friend cleave more flesh from the paledrake's body before backstepping and using the jagged outcrop of thick and thin crystal against the wall as suitable footholds to escape Seath's range. Havel took that moment to assist.

"Head for the crystal!" he shouted as Argon neared him, lowing in to crouch with his shield as a makeshift launch pad. Argon understood his meaning as he raced leapt from crystal to crystal, wary of the dragon hot on his heels.

The two undead timed the jump, Havel dashing tensing his arms at the exact moment Argon's feet touched the centre of the great shield. With a grunt, Havel threw his arms up, aiming to his left as he sent Argon flying. The undead flew from his position like a spring coil, rebounding off the surface of the carved rock just before Seath's tail could slam into the Archbishop for the second time.

"UH-AGH!"

The feeling of being pressed into the ground like a farmer smashing a bug against the ground did _not_ feel comfortable to the armoured undead as the air in his lungs was squeezed from him. However, he was still glad he was able to make a suitable distraction.

Argon landed heavily, breaking his fall with an overhead roll as Havel was smooshed into the floor. As much as he felt like laughing at the old man's predicament, he was more compelled to grin that their impromptu vault had actually paid off.

He broke into a run as he passed by more cursed statues of men he couldn't bother to learn about. As disappointed as he was with the dragon's dynamic entrance, his fighting spirit was endearing to the undead. No matter how many times he cut, bled, or sliced through the paledrake's body, Seath was still ready for more. It didn't matter if his regenerative factor availed him a high pain tolerance, the sheer ferocity of his attacks were encouraging.

Feeble were the words he preferred. But he could agree that whilst blind, the winged lizard had some fight in him, including a sharp mind to deploy traps with such precise calculation. However, the Father of Sorcery was not what he had expected to be. Whilst his name and achievements made him _seem_ like a great adversary, the real deal was actually rather pitiful.

Hidden traps deployed from the shadows, wild swipes and tail-smacks at the slightest sound, charged bursts of concentrated magic that required too much time to cast? This battle was beginning to become more pitiful the more it continued. He honestly didn't understand how the real him was afraid of such a sub-par foe.

Argon grinned as he neared the Primordial Crystal. From up close it seemed mildly more intimidating. With its sleek blue colour and the tail of wispy fog that twirled around it, the shaft of rock looked quite mystifying. That being said… it also appeared less sturdy than he assumed it to be.

The undead picked up his speed and charged towards it, tracers ready to taste crystal when he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks and backflipped. As soon as his feet left the ground, he was rewarded with witnessing the trap that would have turned him into a pin cushion.

With a chuckle, Argon landed on his feet as the cursed crystal before him receded back into the ground. He should have known the paledrake had more than just a few traps lying in wait. With a cautious glance, he closed his left eye to peer at the crystal with his violet orb, searching for any trace of a foreign aura that could possess more traps. When he was satisfied with himself, Argon sniffed before diving forward, rolling to his feet, and twirling elegantly as his tracers severed the Primordial Crystal with sparks of gold and silver.

The sudden shattering of the shaft of rock broke Seath and Havel from their game of tag as they both turned to Argon. The Chosen Undead, in turn, turned back to them with his black bow in his hand as he drew a flame-tipped arrow and fired it at Seath.

_Pheew… SHNACK!_

All three of them watched as the arrow met its mark before the scaleless dragon pulled it out of his snout, the puncture mark sealing over with a soft sizzle.

Argon chuckled; he knew it wouldn't be that easy.

* * *

More Dragon Slayer arrows pierced his hide as the surface of his cursed flesh was pummelled by the advent of his misery, yet Seath stood before the two undead seemingly unfazed. In truth, he was irate, enraged, and rabidly ticked off.

This farce of a battle had pushed every single one of his digits since its genesis that he could barely manage to hold back the pent up energy bubbling in his chest – unless he _wanted_ to kill his daughter, the next source of his immortality.

He had not been expecting much, which was why his insertion of petty traps and minimal strategy had only left the Archbishop impaled rather than eviscerated. In his mind, the thought that these fools would back away after the tremendous odds within his domain had been a solid idea, one he had hoped would pay off and leave him to mutilate the live specimen that was his flesh and blood.

But no… instead, that accursed sentient metal had decimated his Channeller's, shattered the crystal hollows he had formed legions of, and even beheaded the golems he used for maiden acquirement. Then, as if to add insult to injury, the Chosen Undead his nauseating accomplice had seen it fit to end the lives of the Pisaca's he had purposefully kept alive for the incentive of further research. And now here they were, within his crystal cave, standing before his Primordial Crystal and seeking to free the abomination that was and always would be _his_ property? It was down-right exasperating.

However, he had to hand it to both men, they had done well to come this far. Even if their only outcome were to become his lab rats. This saved him the trouble of finding them himself. Additionally, the Chosen Undead had began to exhibit quite the curious behaviour. It was utter rage the first moment he saw him, as if the Abyss and his own hollowed madness had merged to form a singular entity of wrath. At first, Seath had wondered whether it was that putrid infection upon his right side that had caused this shift in disposition, but then he had seen a change occur, and suddenly it had all become crystal clear. It wasn't that the Abyss was controlling him, it was that _he_ was controlling the _Abyss_. That warped persona that commandeered so much willpower that it forced the blight of blights to submit – quite in the intriguing specimen he was.

The next time Seath had peered through his creations to find him, the Chosen Undead had become vastly subdued by his own pessimism, and by doing so, had allowed his skills to dull and his essence to rot. The dragon had assumed that that would have been the moment the raven-haired hero would finally hollow, but then it dawned on him: a being so full of such emotions like dread, anger, sadness, and confusion would never allow himself to hollow – just go insane with his own misunderstanding. It was unique, something Seath himself had found peculiarly fascinating and similar to himself long ago – and that was why he had chosen to stay his hand from killing them immediately.

And _now_, as he towered above his nemesis, the detestable Havel, his pathetic offspring, and the Chosen Undead; he had discovered a brand-new facet to this intricate nautilus of a once human being.

Indeed, the anger was still there like before, but the control was greater. The Abyss was still writhing against his skin, but its effects did not hamper his movements. No, this version of the undead was _exponentially_ more diverse than the others he had witnessed. It confounded him that such a being could exist in this dead world, and it amazed him further to note that _something_ could still amaze him after an eternity of disappointment.

That being said, his observation had drawn to a close long ago. The undead species was something he had been meaning to study for some time, and that was why he had requested his forces to capture the pair dirtying his halls with their filth. But now that he had had the opportunity to face them directly… his study had elapsed, and his interest no longer piqued. Thus, it was about time he ended this sad excuse for battle.

With a deep breath, he summoned an orb of magic to rest within his throat as he condensed the potency of the magic and siphoned off the severity of its after effects, he wouldn't want his daughter to be affected before he had the chance to extract her occultic essence and feed it to the _real_ Primordial Crystal he kept within a safe place. He had almost uttered out a chuckle himself when the Chosen Undead had severed the sparkling imitation on the wall and turned back to see the results. Sometimes even he found his ploys humorous.

Angling his snout Havel's way, Seath growled as he released another beam of pale blue light, blasting the ground and cratering the walls as the focussed attack receded to nothingness. Then, as soon as white steam appeared from his nostrils, the great spires of crystal rose to impale his foes. He felt the loud footsteps of the Archbishop lumber to the side and reached out a massive hand to crush him. Unfortunately, the compatriot of Gwyn seemed more elusive than he had expected, and more agile to boot. Seath's claws bit into the ground just shy of his target, the sound of crystal snapping under the force of his hand.

He heard a whistling in the distance and reared his head back. The scent of bark and giant filled his nostrils as the human-sized great arrow sailed passed his face, and Seath formed another breath of crystal before turning round and blasting the floor with it, hearing the sound of flesh being torn before the coppery scent of blood filled the air.

He heard the Chosen Undead chuckle before both his presence and his aura disappeared for the second time, leaving Seath truly blind to his whereabouts. The dragon blew out cursed steam from his nostrils. So this undead knew how to mask even his aura from detection? How admirable.

But it would do him no good. To find a lion in hiding, all one needed to do was expand the range of their awareness. The dragon breathed in gruffly, tucking his arms and head into his chest as he summoned forth his supressed magic. With the amount of spells he had just cast, it had been enough to whittle down the potency of this particular spell. And with both his nemesis and the Chosen Undead nearby, the accuracy of his attack was absolute.

Seath closed his dull eyes as he allowed the power coursing through his veins to run rampant. And after a moment of intense pressure, he let himself go.

* * *

Havel braced himself as he watched Seath charge his body up with an attack he knew could only end badly. There was no way to really stop the beast once a gathered mass of magic that potent was prompted to be released, thus the reason why he activated the enchantment on his shield. Whether it cost him half of the armament's durability, he truly couldn't care. What mattered was that he wasn't outdone by the foe he had waited eons to kill.

But what worried the ex-Bishop more than the pent-up energies from the paledrake, was the state Argon would be in if he didn't get to safety. And the fact that his companion was instead rushing _toward_ their foe with a sadistic grin on his face did nothing to sate the unease he felt in his gut.

At the mention of his comrades, Havel cast his gaze upwards to Priscilla's cage. He had wondered why she had not voiced her opinion or advice to them after her father had gate-crashed their reunion, and after he saw her, he realised why. Priscilla was unconscious, bleeding steadily from a blow to her forehead. He guessed the bars had given her a concussion after one of Seath's breath attacks, and whilst it was good to know the one currently being used would not reach her because she was so high up, it was _not_ reassuring to see the sorry state she was in. Havel cussed as he tightened the grip on his shield and dug his feet into the ground. Why were things never easy for him?

Argon, meanwhile, was having the time of his life. Fighting one of the last Everlasting Dragons in the world was one tick off his endless bucket list but doing so whilst free to reign over the consciousness of 'Argon' as his past-self was another joy entirely. He almost didn't care for the steady decline in his mental capacity as he continued to trap the real him in their shared mindscape, force the Abyssal corruption to bend to his will and fuel his body with the strength to surpass insurmountable odds.

By this point, he didn't even care about his comrades. Not the vengeful Archbishop currently cowering behind his shield as his ultimate foe prepared to unleash havoc, nor the feeble crossbreed trapped within her cage, unable to reach her father's twisted mind with brittle words coated in warmth.

Out of curiosity, he decided to turn his gaze toward her as he sped towards the Duke. To his mild surprise, she was asleep. Unconscious, was the right way to describe it but she just seemed so pretty with crimson fluid flowing down her brow and tainting that snow-white complexion of hers.

A groan from the dragon brought him back to reality and he grinned as the magic contained within that scaleless chest unravelled like a rosebud. With his right eye, Argon watched as the magic coalesced with the curse afflicting the dragon's body before it exploded in a burst of white light. The floors ruptured and diagonal spikes rose with urgency as Seath's magic corrupted the space they all stood in.

With a wider grin, Argon summoned a lighting spear from his inventory before flinging it skyward, above the wave of magical energy just before said wave crashed into him. His feet left the ground and he felt the pain flood his system. His laugh of ecstasy carried him through the shockwave that tore at his skin, followed by the pillar of crystal that clipped his head, and then finally into the spiky wall that made him gasp out as he went _splat_.

Broken bones, ruptured organs and severed nerves stabbed needles of pain into him, but Argon simply laughed as he fell back to the ground on mutilated legs, his greaves forming a metallic coffin for his lower limbs.

"Argon! Are you alright?" he heard Havel call out as he took a swig of Estus, sighing out as his adams apple popped back into place and his knees did a full 180, turning the right way round as he stood. The paledrake was almost as entertaining as Gwyndolin.

He tried to take a step forward but frowned when he found his legs immobile. That was odd. He was sure the Estus had done its j- ah. He understood now. The curse was _finally_ taking effect. The undead keenly observed the curse cover his body, taking over his legs, waist, arms, and chest. He lifted his right hand as the virulent energy seemed to be absorbed by the status effect. Despite his predicament, he smirked. How would he fare, he wondered, if he used the Abyss to break this weak curse formed by an even weaker castor? Which corrosive power would prevail? The tainted crystal or his uncleanable infection?

Havel watched in horror as his friend stood there, halfway to Seath, and slowly turning into a hunk of black stone from the ground up. He turned back to Seath, his anger growing as he drew his occultic club from his bottomless box and ran forward. He _would_ have vengeance for this. He just hoped Argon could hold out until he was able to do something, or possibly make his way back down here if he died… if he could hold out long enough…

* * *

_"Are you satisfied now?"_ the real Argon asked him as he reappeared back into his mindscape.

_"Can you see how futile it all is? You're fighting a losing battle!"_

**_"Tsk, tsk, tsk. To think YOU of all people would fold under pressure is the true disappointment. Seeing you this worthlessly cling to life and abandon the bonds you painstakingly formed is just sad. Would you like a hug?"_ **

_"I'm being serious!" _the real him replied, jerking around in the clock hands that bound him. _"You were lucky. You have no idea of the full might of Seath."_

**_"And you do?"_ **

The real him remained silent.

The past Argon 'hmphed' as he prodded the black veins on his right side. **_"Your problem is that you don't understand the full might of YOURSELF, never mind Seath. You continue to isolate your true emotions behind fear, anxiety, and depression; as if all you're good for is complaining… it's sickening."_ **

Argon walked up to the real him and drove the hour hand deeper into his body, causing the bound form of himself to cry out in agony.

**_"This repulsive persona aggravates me,"_ **the past Argon hissed into his counterparts ear, **_"the more I see you resign yourself to hollowing, the more I feel compelled to RIP out your existence and feed off its entrails. You and I are not the same persona anymore but we ARE the same man. And I will not have the weakling that stands before me be the last thing I see before my borrowed time expires."_ **

The real Argon gasped as the grip on the clock hand eased up and his counterpart walked away. He was still drowning in turmoil, utter defeat as he remained in this slowly deteriorating space, watching the past him fight on with reckless abandon. But all he could do was uselessly watch from a distance. He couldn't conjure up the fight he had inside of him anymore, bring out the jolly self his knew he possessed deep within the warped walls of whatever part of his mind he was currently standing in. The determination to protect those he cared for just seemed to great of a task. And yet this old version of himself stood tall, a crooked smile on his face as he thinks he cannot die. Argon craved that feeling of enlightenment, _yearned_ to be himself again.

However… hopelessness set in and stole his fire, degraded his confidence and peeled back his strength. He didn't know how to return to being himself, the 'him' he knew was filled with joy, kindness and everlasting positivity. The one that held faith for a god he had only been introduced to once as a child. But how could he revert back to that person when he was blinded by this smothering miasma?

**_"Ahh…"_ **the past him sighed out. **_"so there it is, the seedlings of growth… I guess I'll need to water them. But then again, anything's better than the pathetic slob staring at me."_ **

The real Argon hung his head in shame. It wasn't like he _wanted_ to feel like this.

**_"But have no fear… allow me to inspire life into you once again."_ **

_"Can you really believe you'll win against something as powerful as Seath?"_

**_"As he is, he's immortal, basically speaking. Additionally, he is a mastermind, a colossal entity of war. However…"_ **the past Argon grinned as he turned back.

**_"I am a Lithecore. Not just one of them but the commander of them all. It's about time I allowed myself to actually let GO."_ **

* * *

Priscilla's head throbbed as her eyes fluttered open, the constant swaying of her crystal cage bring forth a wave of queasiness. She couldn't quite recall why she had passed out, or why she was bleeding but she guessed the reason pertained to the battle still being waged below her.

With a groan, her vision cleared up, allowing her to see Sir Havel and her father still duking it out. As much as she didn't want to see this, her father and her companion fighting one another to the death, she was more concerned with the lack of a presence she had hoped would be by the Archbishop's side. It was only when she had reached out with her Lifehunt ability that she noticed a flicker of him towards the far side of the room. Unfortunately, what she saw made her both snap upright in terror and force her stomach to twist.

"No…" her eyes could not fool her, and her mind was not one to play tricks on her. Yet, there he stood… frozen in time and petrified to stone. He couldn't move, his form was stilled and the life within that chunk of rock felt weaker than a hollow's life force. She could not accept it.

"Argon," she breathed. She had been saying his name a lot recently, she knew. But that had previously been all she had needed to say to get through to him. However, now her words could never reach him because he was cursed. Trapped to suffer within a shell of his own body.

The tightness in her chest grew in intensity and she couldn't stop herself from clutching the fabric above it as her tail writhed in displeasure. She had warned him not to try and rescue her. She had pleaded with them both to turn away immediately. But because they had refused to leave a comrade behind, they were paying the ultimate price.

"Gah!" Havel coughed as he hit the wall below her, creating yet another Havel-sized crater. He breathed out threw his teeth, standing up and dusting off the shrapnel stuck between his platemail. Things were _not_ going that smooth today.

"Sir Havel!" the Archbishop looked up and saw the crystalline cage.

"Priscilla, what are you still doing up there? Help an old man kill your sad excuse for a father, would you."

"This isn't the time for jokes," the crossbreed leaned against the bars to her cage. "And besides, even if I could assist you, I don't have my scythe with me."

"Tch! Think outside of the box for once. Did you even bother trying to utilise Lifehunt energy _without_ a catalyst?"

"I…" Priscilla opened her mouth to speak but stopped. He was right, she hadn't even realised she could do that.

"Well? Stop moping and come down here!"

"And just _how_ would I begin to do that?!" she screamed back uncharacteristically. She didn't mean to act unladylike, she promised. But after the entire ordeal she had suffered with her father, and now Havel's nagging, she couldn't help it. She hoped Argon didn't hear that.

"By the looks of things, the cage is already about done for." Havel spoke up to her as he surveyed the cracks withing the crystal before he walked toward a sharp piece of rock and wrenched it out of the wall.

"Get ready, I'm going to crack the base further."

Priscilla nodded and gathered up her tail and Argon's mask as she stood, hands clutching the bars around her in preparation.

Havel nodded and launched the broken spear of rock like a javelin, cracking the base of her cage further before she raised her tail to deliver a mighty smack against the flimsy floor.

_CRACK!_

The base of the cage shattered instantly and the crossbreed found herself tumbling toward solid ground again. She braced herself put found a soft landing in the arms of her comrade.

"Thank you, Sir Havel."

The Archbishop grinned before setting her down.

"How's your head feel? It looks like you suffered a nasty hit." He probed as he wiped off the blood drying on her temple.

"I'm okay. The wound is already healed."

The undead huffed. "Lucky you. If only the fool and I had your genes, we would be damn near unstoppable. Well, more so than we already are."

"Speaking of Argon, where is h-"

Her eyebrows shot into her forehead at the sight of the Chosen Undeads body petrified in black stone a good distance away from them.

"Oh no, we have to help him immedia-"

"Worry not, child, he'll be okay." Havel reassured her as he two-handed his Dragontooth once more. "He just needs to make it back here before we become this evenings entrées."

Priscilla caught his meaning as they turned to face Seath, the dragon offering a roar in response as he was finally recognised. She stared at her father apprehensively. He had been the reason for all her suffering, pain and isolation, the only reason why she had previously feared to be in her own skin. He had tortured her with his malice and discarded her into a frozen wasteland after he had taken nearly everything from here. She knew she should have felt hatred toward him for all of that, knew that she should unleash the devastating power within her to crush the Duke that shackled her freedom and twisted her happiness in an act of retribution. But after seeing him when so much of time had passed… all she truly felt was pity, sadness, and woe.

He was not the dragon she had met during her youth, that she was sure of. The glint in his unseeing eyes that stared her down at this moment was more abstract than the days he had simply wanted to tinker around. The ferocity that had once burned through him, that lust for knowledge had dwindled greatly, leaving behind the form of a beast that now only sought seclusion and privacy.

He was a shell of his former self, and although that was the one saving grace he had acquired, the fact that the only way to make him see reason was to kill him felt so animalistic to her. She didn't want to kill him, despite what he had done, and yet here they were, steps away from their doom. She knew that Havel sought his revenge, and yet seeing him madly swinging his instruments around filled her with an unease, as if the current situation were just making the Archbishop head quicker to his own departure the more he engaged her father.

And then there was Argon. She had felt the confusion in him the moment they had left her uncle, smelt the fear slowly seeping into his veins as he struggled to commandeer his own body now that the Abyss had spread over him like a dim cloud of grey. Although he did his best to hide it, he was broken and weak. Lordran had taken too much from him and still demanded he offer more than his soul. As it were, he was half dead already, barely making it with the façade of confidence he wore like a badge of honour. The sight broke her heart to pieces, guilt and pain flooding her body as she watched him fight not for himself, but for those he cared about.

And now he was here to fight her battles as well.

She might have been unconscious for a while, but her senses had certainly not taken a break. She had felt the way in which he had channelled the Abyss as his weapon, warping its decay to enhance his already shattered body. What's more, she could tell he was not himself, his behaviour after finding her was proof enough. He was going through more than she or Sir Havel could comprehend, and yet he still wished to save her. Still wished to comply with the Undead Prophecy, even if it meant him dying time and time again. And even though he had voiced his opinion that linking the Flame wasn't an option, the sheer stress of merely gathering these ancient souls was causing him to self-destruct.

And that was something she could not allow.

She had behaved meek and subdued in the past, especially after he had freed her. Whether because of her fear of the outside world or just genuine hesitation to allow herself to _be_ free, she couldn't remember. But right now, the only thing going through her head was that she could no longer allow her friends to suffer like this whilst she played the damsel in distress. Because she was more than just some crossbreed, she was more than just Priscilla. She was a living being, with a mind and will of her own, with power strong enough to turn this world on its head if she exercised it enough. And besides that… she was also the Princess of the Shining City – whether people accepted it or not. She would not and could not allow her friends, her loved ones to ensure this plight whilst she stood on the side lines. So scythe or not, she _would_ ensure this battle was settled soon, _without_ the need to kill her father or her comrades.

Priscilla breathed in deeply as she adopted a determined mindset. To execute her plan, they would first need to deal with her father. Whilst immortal, they could still beat him, and that was via submission. It would be difficult, especially considering the wisdom of the Duke of Anor Londo, but if they could make it this far, then they could also beat the paledrake down a few pegs.

The next step after that would be to pacify Havel. It would be harder to convince the suborn Archbishop to forgo his need for revenge, but if anyone could get through to him, it was her.

_And lastly…_

She glanced at Argon's petrified form again. She could be sure that something new would resent itself when he re-emerged, and it wouldn't necessarily be something nice. In the case of that happening, she would need to come up with a way to calm him down, especially if he becomes unhinged like that time with her uncle.

Priscilla took a confident step forward toward Seath, ready to end this supposed one-sided battle when the sight of enchanted bark met her eyes. she frowned and turned to her right to see Havel with his hand outstretched toward her, Occultic Club in hand.

"Um… Sir Havel."

"Hmm?"

"What… are you attempting to do exactly?"

"What's it look like? I'm handing you a weapon." Havel said gruffly. "Can't have you getting those cute fingers broken."

"Oh, uh…"

"What's the matter now?" the ex-Bishop pressed, an irritated look on his face.

"Well…" Priscilla began, an awkward look on her features. "It's… it's just that I um…"

"It's the club, isn't it?" Havel said bluntly. The crossbreed sweat-dropped as she let out a nervous chuckle.

"No, no! It's not tha-"

"Please don't lie to me so blatantly."

"O-Oh… forgive me."

"It's okay, just tell me what's wrong with the club."

"Well… It's just a bit too…"

"Too… what?"

"I don't think I should say."

"What?" Havel stepped in front of her. "No, we've already come this far in the conversation. Rather just say it."

"I don't know about this. Are you certain?"

"Of course, I'm certain! Now spill it!"

"O-Okay, then…" Priscilla twirled a finger through her hair awkwardly. This wasn't going to be easy.

"The club is nice, it really is."

"But?" Havel stared.

"It's a bit too…"

"Well? Say it."

"Brutish."

"I KNEW IT!"

Priscilla cringed as the Archbishop walked away from her, hand on his head as he lamented on his decision to even make her _look_ at the weapon a caveman would use. What was he _thinking_ giving her a piece of wood to clobber an Everlasting Dragon that could heal itself? Yes, it was occultic and she was basically full of that energy but that didn't mean she would be able to use a Havel-sized weapon.

The Archbishop sighed out as he pocketed the item as his tailed companion placed a gentle hand on his back out of concern. What was up with him in his elderly years?

"Seath isn't fighting us seriously." Priscilla blinked at that comment. From what she had seen thus far, the battle seemed evenly matched – if she excluded her father's regenerative factor. However, assuming that the millennium old dragon was only capable of simple breath attacks and large-scale magical explosions was foolish of her. Seath was not an esteemed Duke of sorcery for nothing, it was only natural that he had a near infinite store of spells within that enormous head of his. The fact that he hadn't deemed it necessary to display said powers yet was either because he didn't see them as much of a challenge, or because he was waiting for something to initiate him to takes things a step further. Whichever way she sliced it, she couldn't help but feel mildly insulted, even if she herself didn't feel as powerful as she actually was.

"Well, then we'll just have to make him take this seriously." She replied in confidence.

"What's your plan?"

The crossbreed adjusted the gloves around her fingers before curling her tail and lowering into a low stance. "The only way possible right now is to aggravate him. That will at least force his hand."

Havel guffawed. "As simple-minded as that sounds, I can't help but want to play along."

Without need for affirmation of their next task, Priscilla tensed the muscles in her legs before she shot forward, racing over the expansive crystal floor like an enraged ghost. Seath heard the quick steps of her boots tap against the floor and sucked in a deep breath, conjuring more of his cursed magic to coalesce within his chest.

She recognised the attack and quickly diverted her path to the right of him, just bypassing the ray of azure energy that dug a deep trench into the ground not three feet behind her. The sound of Havel grunting as a new wave of crystalline spikes knocked against his shield alerted her of the successful casting of the dragon's attack. She breathed in deeply as she altered her course and headed toward a nearby tail of Seath's.

With a growl, she let out a magical blast of her own that speared through the tip of the fleshy appendage and froze it in place with ice so cold it burned the paledrake's scaleless skin.

Seath bared his fangs at her but was unable to move so much as a finger in her direction due to the magical backlash he sustained from such a powerful attack. The white-haired crossbreed moved like water, using his impaled tail as a makeshift bridge as she ran across it before jumping up and ploughing her sharp nails into his flank.

The immediate sensation of Lifehunt energy spilled into his body, causing Seath to roar in pain. Priscilla grit her teeth as he shook his body in an attempt to fling her off, her fingers digging in deeper before she pulled herself up, tore her right hand out of her father's body and stabbed her claws into him again, climbing up his enormous body.

The dragon wailed, his head snapping back as more occultic magic sizzled his insides. He had never cared about the pain enchanted weapons could wreak upon its foes, but direct assault from one's source was a different matter entirely. In the past, he had experimented on the scales of his daughter, once or twice experiencing the utter agony such magic could cause a person to endure. And yet, it felt so much more unbearable as she channelled that forbidden power through her very own _fingers_ to wound him.

Priscilla gasped as the she felt the skin around her hands begin to heal, attempting to seal her fingers along with it and closed her eyes, summoning even more Lifehunt energy to aide her in her endeavour. It was difficult using so much without her scythe, so much so that it was beginning to drain her of stamina but she pushed on, tearing her hands out of the paledrake's flesh as she continued her climb, steadily moving up towards his neck.

Seath eventually regained full control of his body after the magic in his body regulated, before reaching out to grab her. She may have been the item he needed to drain and funnel into his Primordial Crystal, but she was wrong if she thought he needed her perfect.

The crossbreed cried out as his hands enclosed around her, squeezing with enough force to shatter the spires of Gwyn's castle. Her resilient body endured the pressure but her grip on him relented, availing him the chance to pull her off his body. He held her a metre in front of his face and watched her struggle in his hand, clawing at his large knuckle and flailing her legs about. It was pleasing to see she had lost that meek disposition she had grown into as a child, and the ferocity in her face as she attempted to free herself was admirable indeed. However, she was still foolish if she believed she could defeat him as she was not.

Her abominable magic may have scared the gods, but it did not cause him to faulter. Try as she might, there was no way her powers of the occult would be able to slay him. As it were, the Primordial Crystal was already expelling the negative energy within him, healing the wound she had made in less than a second.

Even if she had used a substantial amount of magic to attack him, it would do nothing but cause him to stumble. His resistance to the affinity he had a hand in bringing into the world was just too strong for the Lifehunt to overwhelm.

"I won't allow you to harm my friends." She warned, still tearing away at the fast-healing wounds on his hand. "and I won't let them kill _you_ either."

Seath scoffed. As if they _could_.

He charged another mouthful of bright blue magic. Roughing her up a bit wouldn't be pushing it. In fact, it would ensure she stayed down whilst he dealt with the pathetic Bishop he had forced into exile centuries ago. He didn't need her getting up and attempting to fight him again, was weak as her control over the Lifehunt was, it was still distracting to his body due to how foreign it still felt after all these years.

But as he was about to fire off a round from his maw, he felt an excruciating blow to his right tail, followed by a horrific _crunch_.

Turning back, he reached out with his magic and saw a weak outline of someone behind him. It was Havel, he recognised that infuriating weapon he had salvaged from one of his worthless brethren's corpses. Before he could react to the enraged undead, he felt another mighty blow to the end of his tail. The feeling of his bones turning to brittle and piercing his flesh made him roar in both fury and pain.

Unfortunately, that wasn't the end of it. At the exact moment that Seath opened his mouth, Priscilla – who had been silently charging up an attack of her own – let out a stream of icy magic at point blank range.

Seath choked as icy pillars and shards materialised down his throat until it blocked off his air supply entirely. His grip on his daughter loosened marginally enough her to squeeze out of his fingers and land on the ground before backflipping out of a tail he sent to slam her into the floor.

With a lurch, Seath grabbed his throat and squeezed with both hands, attempting to crush the built-up ice within before his magic went out of control from the blockage. Again, he was left to hang dry as the Lifehunt imbued into the solid liquid seeped into his body, the pain causing him to lose control for a moment.

A moment that had cost him.

In an instant, the pent-up magic bubbling within his chest, struggling to reach the back of his throat lit up, illuminating his pale flesh like a lamp as the Lifehunt energy merged with it. His body fought against the foreign magic, spinning wildly within his gullet before the dragon spasmed. And then the room burst into white.

Havel uttered a war cry as he rushed to Priscilla's side, stabbing his shield into the ground in front of her with both hands and tensing up. He felt her arms wrap around him and he grit his teeth as the explosion bashed against him like an Iron Golem.

Spikes of crystal, petrified bodies of other undead, even the ground beneath them caved in under the immense pressure. More object beat against the Archbishop's shield but he refused to relent. The force of the combined magic had worked better than he had anticipated, creating a pure wave of destruction despite the minimal amount of magic summoned by both parties. He attributed it to the potency of both occultic and cursed magic, however, for it to have such an immense outcome… he looked down at his tailed companion. If this was just a _fraction_ of her power, he feared to know what she could do with **_all_ **of it.

They remained tensed for a few more moments as the stark brightness dissipated, leaving behind a room with falling crystal and ruptured floors. The far corners of the room were still untouched by the implosion, however the ceiling itself was beginning to cave in. Amidst the rubble, stood their scaleless foe.

Seath had taken the brunt of the damage due to the collision of magic deriving from _within_ him. Because of that, the detonation had taken more from him than it had from Havel and Priscilla. Both of them looked at the still form of the Duke, the upper portion of his head reduced to bleeding flesh as only his lower jaw remained. Among the bodily evisceration, his wings on his right side were also partly damaged with more than half of them appearing to be torn off.

The icy crystal that was lodged down his throat was partly visible, a few spikes of solid ice puncturing the outside of his neck, leaving behind jagged tears where there was once fur and pale skin.

The sight was grotesque to Priscilla, yet she stood strong. She knew this wasn't the end, Seath was much more resilient than that.

And the dragon proved her right by _standing up_.

"Lloyd's sake." Havel cursed as he left his shield where it was and hauled his Dragontooth up once more. He wondered just how insane the dragon had to be to be able to survive being disembowelled from the inside out. He watched as residual magic swirled around his nemesis, rapidly reforming flesh, bone, and muscle as Seath's head was put back together, piece by agonising piece. he cringed. The pain must have been unimaginable, and yet he _still_ refuse to keel over.

_Nice to know he shares in Argon's stubbornness. This is going to be a long day._

"Well, that worked." Havel nodded to himself. They had surely screwed the pooch now.

"Prepare yourself, father isn't one to hold back when aggravated."

"Oh, believe me, honey… I know _all_ about that." He replied, pulling out his talisman and casting Magical Barrier on the both of them.

"I'm just surprised you're so willing to help me kill the great beast."

"I'm not helping you kill him," she smiled, "my goal is to prevent death on both ends."

A smile found Havel's face at that answer, filling him with more Moxy than he had anticipated.

"Hah! Good luck, my revenge will still be found, whether you like it or not."

"Then I guess I just have to convince you with much more than sincerity."

Her reply silenced him. And for a moment he entertained the idea of forgiveness… until his rage overwhelmed the blasphemy of that thought and he curled his lip as Seath finally healed himself to completion.

The dragon breathed out a cloud of misty air as the ice that had flooded his mouth melted to water, dripping out the side of his mouth as he bared his fangs toward the two interlopers still alive within his crystal cavern.

He had never distracted himself with the idea that someone could truly make him as angry as he was currently. Even Havel, the Archbishop that had attempted to thwart his plans had been nothing more than a nuisance to him when he had stormed his Archive and arrived at his chamber. But now… oh, _now_ his mind had been turned.

He no longer cared for playing around with the stubborn undead. Because _now_ he was ready to tear those limbs of his off with his teeth, open a hole in that thick armour with his magic and sever his soul to _splinters_.

As for his daughter, he thought against using her to fuel his Primordial Crystal. There was no real to, even if the magic _was_ eating him from the inside out. He could handle a menial drawback. What he could _not_ was the fact that his failed spawn actually thought she could beat him with that ancient magic of hers on par with the Goddess of Sin herself.

No… he would not need her essence any longer. What he _really_ wanted was to make her scream out in agony. It would be payment for hers and her useless mother's acts against him, and he would _revel_ in it.

All three beings stood still as statues, weighing each other up as they prepared for the tension in the air to be snapped like someone's spinal cord. Seath growled dangerously as his tails whipped around him, claws prepared to show these worthless ants what _true_ power would feel like. They had endured his might thus far, yes. But they had no idea what he was really capable of. And to make matters worse for themselves, they had engaged him in battle whilst in _his_ domain. They would curse themselves for such an error.

However, as they were about to throw down, they all felt the tiny tingle of energy begin to pool around the room. It was slight at first, almost invisible as they had focussed their attention to one another. But now… it felt like a musty cloud hanging around the room, as if it had slowly grown, waiting for them to notice it.

And notice it they did. For when the strange magic – if they could even call it that – had reached a substantial level in the destroyed room they stood in, the tension was broken with a distinct _snap_.

With wide eyes, Priscilla and Havel look on behind Seath toward the other end of the room. Stationed near the broken remains of the fake Primordial Crystal stood Argon's petrified body, frozen in time yet seeping out infectious energy from the jagged crack along his outstretched arm. They waited a few moments longer and more cracks began to grow from the first, spreading quickly along the stony body of their comrade, until the entire right side of the Chosen Undead was marred with thick and thin lines.

Dense, unsightly mana dripped out from the cracks, as if a slime were attempting to force its way out before Seath and his foes felt a rush of dangerous power. The dragon immediately turned around, snapping an enormous hand against the wall, causing a quartet of cobalt crystal pillars to shatter said body of stone.

However, to both his shock and concern, the columns of rock were blown to dust as a filthy orb of Abyssal energy expanded around the Chosen Undeads body. And then, as if things couldn't get any worse, Argon flexed his arm, breaking cracked stone from his body as his upper half burst for the from the curse.

" _Ahhh_… finally _free_." He sighed out, a whimsical grin on his monochrome face as the purple flames of the Abyss washed over his form.

Seath hissed, drawing more spires of rock from the walls and floor around them to speed toward the changed undead. Argon simply held out his hand as another wave of destructive power tore through the crystals like they were nothing.

The undead tilted his head to the side as he saw Havel and Priscilla with worried looks on their faces. They seemed more concerned for him than they did for their own lives. He smiled, how _thoughtful_ of them.

The stone encasing his left side cracked and crumbled for a moment before his other hand broke free of the curse, summoning a purging stone from his inventory and crushing it in his hand to ward off the remaining putrid essence that stuck his feet to the ground.

As he got his bearings and drew his tracers for round two, the other beings in the chamber eyed him with an air of caution. He simply replied with a flash of his pearly whites.

"Well, what are we all waiting for? Hail to the _slaughter_."

**(*queue: "0.00 a.m." by _Acid _*) **

Seath didn't waste any time in flooding the room in his magic, a spell circle of titanic proportions hovering above all of them before he rained down crystalline hell. The squall of cobalt, azure, and royal blue shards stabbing the ground like a leviathan's arsenal of pikes. Both Havel and Priscilla were shielded by the Archbishop's great shield as they advanced, the crossbreed concentrating her Lifehunt ability into her breath, claws, teeth, and circulating the rest around her body to heal herself should any lucky shards find their mark.

Argon, meanwhile, took the opposite approach, racing forward carelessly. Whilst he was at risk from being impaled mid-way, he made up for the lack of protection with his speed and evasive action, dodging left and right, forward and back as his tracers gleamed silver and gold.

The Everlasting Dragon felt both parties' approach and tucked his head into his chest. All three of them saw the attack coming but didn't expect him to follow up with a half-second charge of magic. The moment Seath expelled his wave of calamity, Argon leapt into the air. Below him, a sea of stalagmites dripping in cursed energy waiting for him to land.

Argon grinned madly as he lifted his gaze forward, only to see the paledrake's large hand swing his way, about to slap him into last century. The undead allowed gravity to lower him a few feet before he raised his arms and stabbed deep holes into the incoming hand. The force of the blow rocked his body but Argon remained strong, digging the tracer's deeper as he climbed up the hand and sped forward along Seath's arm; all the while cackling loudly.

The dragon growled and huffed through his nose, filling the space near his snout in thick mist. Argon admired his ingenuity and replied in kind by tossing a black firebomb forward as he vaulted over the swipe from Seath's other hand.

The firebomb hit its mark, turning the white mist black with smoke. When it finally cleared, Argon was graced with the sight of a roaring paledrake, a beam of concentrated magic hurtling his way. The undead met the blast head-on, using the purple flames on his right hand as a shield with another expulsion of vile energy. The beam of magic was delayed a second, and Argon used that time to dive off the arm, Havel waiting for him down below with his shield over his head. The Chosen Undead landed on the great shield, his muscles tensing before leaping up again.

Seath couldn't react in time to defend against the oncoming assault so he did the next best thing, snapped at the Chosen Undead.

Argon grunted as his leg was caught between Seath's jaws. The dragon glared at him with blind eyes before his head began to shake from side to side. Argon experienced the pain of his leg being ripped from his body before the rapid motion made him feel nauseous and he promptly stabbed a tracer into the dragon's nostril.

Seath reeled back, opening his mouth just enough to allow the undead to slip out, climb his maw and score twin strikes across the paledrake's face. He smiled to himself, proud of his handiwork that was already healing itself before using the dragon's face as a springboard to backflip himself back to the ground.

Priscilla joined him as he dropped both tracers into her hands before rolling to the side as Seath sent a mighty fist to plough the area he was standing in. The crossbreed blocked her face from the shrapnel, staring up at her father as he curled his hand into a claw before summoning a few large orbs of burning blue energy. She immediately charged forward; dodging passed the first orb that attempted to smash into her. With an elegant twirl, she cleaved two neat lines into her father's crystal-ridden body before jumping back and spinning her blades diagonally. Rich, dark blood gushed out from Seath's abdomen as he roared, flicking a tail toward her in agitation.

Her eyes darted to the side as the appendage neared her before breathing out freezing ice that pierced it, simultaneously halting it an inch from her face. Seath tried in vain to wrench it free but immediately felt the drain on his life force as her Lifehunt ability seeped into his bloodstream.

And it was at that exact moment that Havel arrived.

"AAARGH!"

The Archbishop slammed his weapon against the thick flesh of Seath's tail, hearing more than just a snap as he dragged his Dragontooth back, built up more momentum by spinning, and delivered another successive blow on the wounded tail. He cringed when the tail replied with a louder breakage of bones.

CRUNCH!

Priscilla flinched at Seath's cry before she sped up to the appendage and stuck it again. From Argon's viewpoint, she seemed like a dark servant of Velka, moving elegantly as she cut through the dragon's tail with ease.

_SLICE-SHINK-SHNICK-SLASH-_

**_SPLASH!_ **

**(*Fight song ends*)**

The Everlasting Dragon bellowed as half of his right tail was cleft in twain, dark blood spilling put life a fountain as the Primordial Crystal worked double time to regrow the lost limb. Seath crushed the mass of orbs in his hand, filling his hand with writhing blue energy before slamming it into the ground.

The explosion that rocked both the crossbreed and the Archbishop sent them tumbling far away from the dragon as Seath trembled, rage engulfing his mind. He should have killed those two whilst he had the chance. But now that they were in his line of sight, there was no better time than the present.

He opened his maw, filling his throat with enough magic to blow a giant hole through the cave itself before delaying its release. Alongside his crystal breath, the dragon held up a hand, palm facing his daughter and nemesis. Slowly, he pulled together the magic from around the room, pooling it together to form a small sun within the cavern they all stood within.

He was tired of this game now; it was about time he closed the final curtain.

With a roar, Seath allowed the gathered magic in his throat to go wild. The particles of magic violently writhed as it began to leave his maw. And that was when a Dragon Slayer arrow pierced through the paledrake's left eye.

The dragon screeched as the course of his blast was altered, veering towards the ceiling above him as his head snapped back due to the force of both the stone-tipped arrow and his own attack.

Havel groaned as he got up, Dragontooth-less as he patted his body down for mortal wounds. He sighed out when he found a few light gashes through his platemail and turned back to see an unconscious Priscilla. The sigh that left his lips lessened the vice-like grip on his heart.

So they had survived after all. He had never been that grateful that his anti-magic barrier had redirected most of that previous explosion. Thinking back on it now, he hadn't seen Argon during that last attack.

He turned his gaze forward to see if his companion had managed to brave that blow when his eyes bugged out of its sockets. Right there, standing at the same height as Seath, was an orb of so much magic that it was frightening, and it was speeding straight towards them both.

The Archbishop's eyes darted around him, in search for his shield but found no trace of it. He looked back at the behemoth projectile. He couldn't allow that to touch Priscilla. He would surely die himself if he attempted to meet it head on but he had the advantage of reviving at a bonfire, the crossbreed didn't.

But he was too tired to even stand, and yet again, he felt more of his armour flake off his body as he struggled to get to his knees.

_No, I'm not quitting just yet._

He still had his revenge to think about. And he wasn't going to just die, revive outside of this accursed cave he and Argon had taken _eons_ to traverse before continuing his fight. He would stand his ground and brave this attack, no problems. He just needed extra protection.

Managing to haul out his now torn and withering talisman, Havel clenched his teeth as he summoned all the magic he possessed within him, funnelling it into the miracle he had created to deal with issue just like this one.

His body lit up with a bright hue of warm light, outlining his armour like an angel's halo as he allowed the material in his hand to fall to the floor, its final task done.

The bright blue of the orb illuminated his bearded face as Havel offered it a wry smile.

"This is why I hate magic."

However – and this seemed to be occurring too frequently for his taste – he was interrupted from feeling immense pain when Priscilla suddenly flashed in between both him and the gigantic orb, one hand on his shoulder as she sucked out his magic with her Lifehunt ability, and raised her other hand toward the hurtling orb of death, channelling the magical barrier out of it.

Havel gasped as his magic was torn from his body. "Priscilla, stop!"

She ignored his plea as the orb hit, smashing into the anti-magic wall she raised in front of both of them.

"A-Argh." She bit her tongue as the force of the orb forced her feet back an inch, but still she didn't yield. The attack sent their way would have most certainly killed her companion, even with the shroud of magic he had slathered over his form. The only choice she had had was to convert his magic into a shield for the two of them, her power was more substantial than his, after all. And if her luck played correctly, she might even be able to protect _him_ from the blast completely. She doubted she could redirect it at this point, the momentum it had built was too great, and she couldn't use her powers to absorb it either since it was conjured via the elements around them, not from her father. The whiplash of taking in that much natural energy would be a literal overload for her – not that getting hit by the orb in front of her would be the easier alternative.

"Sir Havel… you need- ah! T-To run." Her hand trembled as it was forced back a bit. Holding onto this magical shield whilst simultaneously replacing Havel's lost magic with her life force was taxing on her. She would have chastised him for even considering this reckless act but she had her hands full at the moment. Still though, the fact that the ex-Archbishop had been willing to sacrifice all of his magic – which in turn would cost him his life – just to save her, the abomination that nobody cared for was heart-warming. She would be sure to thank him if they ended up living to tell the tale.

"Priscilla," Havel said raggedly. He had used up all of the remaining magic in his system which would have ended in his death if she hadn't chosen to intervene. But even still, the fact that she had chosen to save him despite knowing he would not die was foolish. Didn't she know he was almost immortal as an undead?!

"Why… when you know I can revive?"

She smiled at him like a child would toward their grandparent, kind and sincere. It warmed his heart whilst also knocking a guilty nail into it.

"J-Just because you _can_ revive… doesn't me-mean that you should allow yourself to die."

He stared at her with wide eyes as she held both their death's at bay. He was proud to see her make such leaps and bounds as a person, but the fact that he had allowed himself to let her protect them _knowing_ that such foul odds were against them…

"Now, we c-can't have you sp-spacing… out, Sir Havel."

The Archbishop looked up; a firm look on his face. "My magic isn't substantial enough. You need to take my life essence from me, now."

Priscilla shook her head as she powered through the pain. Like it or not, even her control over her Lifehunt had its drawbacks, and right now, she could feel her grasp on Havel's barrier slipping.

"If you want to repay me then please… lay your revenge to rest."

Havel stared at her with sad eyes. "You know I can't do that. It's the only thing keeping me sane."

Her soft laugh forced tears to roll down his face as the barrier before them began to crack.

"Of course you can. You're Sir Havel… you can do a-aghn!" she clenched her teeth, the force of the orb of magic slowly breaking through their defence. She knew they didn't have long. They would have to make this quick.

With an innocent smile, and the kindest eyes Havel had even come to know, Priscilla spoke her final words as the barrier before them shattered completely, letting the blazing sphere through.

"You can do _anything_…"

And suddenly all the ex-Bishop saw was white before pain rocked his soul.

" _PRSCILLAAAAA!"_

* * *

Argon watched as both his comrades screamed in anguish, the deep globe of magic burning them from every direction as they were washed by its overwhelming glow. He should have felt angered by such a sight, saddened too; instead, he just felt like scoffing.

Seath, a pathetic excuse for the dragons of legend, had killed two birds with one stone – or should he say two sinners with an unholy sphere of light? Either way, at least he didn't have to worry about them getting in his way. Whilst they may have been the reason he stood back up to fight insurmountable odds, that emotional strength belonged to the _real_ Argon, not the current him. At this very moment, whilst he was still in control, his eyes only detected a fallen Bishop and a sinful goddess bearing a posthumous end by his hand. Now that they had been taken out of the equation by the very being he was eager to kill, there wasn't a need for him to break his head about it.

The Duke himself was a different matter. After what had seemed like a tumultuous display of power, he still seemed unfazed. Perhaps it was due to his so-called 'everlasting' magic that overrated crystal of his availed him? Or perhaps the dragon simply possessed greater reserves than he had assumed.

Whichever way he sliced it, one objective was clear: find and destroy Seath's favourite gemstone.

The dragon snarled at him, pulling out the great arrow lodged within his skull. The undead watched the large optic nerve regenerate at surprising speed before a murky, dull blue eye stared down at him again. Argon merely smiled at the gesture.

_Six seconds._

Not waiting for the go-ahead, the Chosen Undead rushed his foe, demon spear flashing into his hands as he thrust the bone-white weapon forward, stabbing a piece of flesh just under Seath's ribcage before he dodged a right hand that would have crushed him into the floor. He heard another guttural growl and dropped into a low crouch, just missing the next hand before he countered with a heavy stab in the same place he had delivered he first.

Instantly, the wound lit up with lightning, singeing the point of impact with its sharp teeth. Argon jumped back as a tail smacked into him. The spear in his hands disappeared into silver wisps of mist as he rolled to the left of an incoming beam of magic, drew his black bow and fired a flame-tipped arrow into the very same wound he had already struck twice.

He grinned as charred flesh lost its dark complexion, being filled out with fresh skin as it sealed up around the shaft of the arrow.

_Three seconds._

The undead kept his distance with the next frontal assault, drawing his Oolacile catalyst as the paledrake slithered toward him – the lazy lout making the first move for once.

He knew full well that magic wouldn't work on the oversized beast, Seath was basically immune to any magical attack he could cast – however, it was a different story entirely when said magic was infused with another foreign element altogether. Just take the scaleless dragon's late daughter, for instance, her occultic magic had harmed him quite a bit, even if he _had_ healed in a jiffy.

Argon raised his arm skyward, the end of the ashen tree branch turning a misty black as he channelled his spell through it.

Seath seemed to recognise the abhorrent enchantment take root from the undead before he hissed, raising a monolithic hand of his own. Argon watched with a smug face as a torrent of crystalline tendrils extended from the room around them, their jagged ends directed toward his motionless form as he prepped his hex. His assumption had been correct after all, the dragon was wary of this type of magic.

The fronds of glittering mineral sped toward him, their quantity filling his vision like an army of faceless serpents. For a moment he thought of that diminutive false god before his face stretched into a sick grin and his catalyst expelled the energy it had accumulated.

The Father of Sorcery watched as several beads of abysmal darkness crashed into his crystal barrage, devouring the rich mineral like ravenous parasites before breaking through the cobalt walls with a hideous sizzle.

He had not cared for the human-born disease that had obliterated Oolacile and corrupted to weak minds of the Four Kings, but he _had_ spent time researching that foul magic. After countless experimentation with his own crystals and after he had taken to bonding his flesh with the curse currently turning him into a dragonoid statute – albeit, quite slowly – he had come to the conclusion that the powers of the abyss were far more repugnant to him than Velka's dominion over the Dark. As such, he had refused to allow such crass mutations of magic to enter his Archives, set up a blockade of golems to surround the Darkroot Basin, the unofficial warp-point to the corrupted forests of Mirkwood; and had even trapped that useless princess within one of his gold creations to ensure no trace of the Abyss could potentially enter his domain.

And yet…

"Aw, what's the _matter_, great betrayer of the Ancients? Abyss got your tongue?"

It had taken just _one_ undead to undo his plans. Oh, how he was going to _enjoy_ pulling this insignificant bottom-feeder apart, particle by particle.

The dragon's keen senses zeroed in on the undead in time to feel the growth of yet another warped incantation. He lowered his head as his body filled up with cursed magic; he intended to finish this fight quickly.

The incoming mass of appalling energy made the fur on his skin writhe, yet he remained calm – this was but a paltry exchange, even if the Chosen Undead was filled almost to the brim with the Abyss itself. This fight was nothing to him, a mere annoyance despite how drawn out it had become.

The dark energy approached him like a rapid hound, and he replied in kind with a focussed shot of unborrowed power, the bright beam dissipating the mist that flew toward him and slamming into Argon, forcing him to the ground as Seath huffed out plumes of tainted air.

Compared to his brethren, this was child's play.

Argon stood up with a satisfied groan. The impact of that roar had filled him with so much delicious pain that he couldn't help but drool. It was also curious to note that although his previous attack had nearly sealed him in a stony coffin, this particular blast of magic had merely torched his being from the inside out. He wondered if perhaps it was by his reliance on the corruption on his right side that negated the curse imbued within Seath's body, but didn't dwell on it long enough to find out – after all, there were _much_ more exciting things to do.

The flames of the Abyss coiled around his body as he observed the paledrake. In all honesty, they weren't getting anywhere like this. In fact, if he had to weigh the gravity of the situation for a moment, they were almost equal in power. One of them would have to get serious soon.

Argon meditated on the scaleless beast as he watched the dragon regain control of his limbs again. If he were to decide the due judgement on the endangered species before him, what would it be exactly? The dragons were not, in his opinion, really deserving of the title sinner; partly due to the fact that they had not been the aggressors during the Old War. He could possibly judge the blind lizard on his transgressions against humanity, what with his unending experimentation on captured maidens – yet at the same time, he wondered whether it was really a sin, considering the deplorable acts of Man.

Or maybe he should be focussing on the dragon's sin for power – or was it knowledge? _Yes_, the dragon _had_ sinned after all. His lust for the attribute he was born without was a clear marker of his contravention. A combination of envy for his brethren, jealousy for what they took for granted, his lust to commit genocide and become the only flying lizard of strength. Add on his lapse of personality due to a crazed obsession to live forever and Argon had a literal wealth of depravity to purge. How fitting.

The undead sprinted like a maddened wolf, arms flailing behind him as he eagerly approached the Everlasting Dragon, catalyst already drawn and conjuring another sinister spell. His sight lit up with an array of colours as he watched Seath draw deep from within himself to counter Argon's recurring attack.

The undead followed the trail of thin strands of blue from within the paledrake. It drew close together in his chest for a few seconds before settling and flowing up his large throat toward the back of his maw. Argon's brow crinkled, however, when he caught an anomaly in the information his insane mind quickly processed.

It had only been there for a split-second, but he had seen it, nonetheless. A slight flash of untainted magic that merged with the rest of the dragon's essence. His eyes grew wide with understanding before another crooked smile broke his features apart.

So _that_ was where he had hidden it. How clever; now all the pieces made sense as the fit into this jumbled puzzle.

Argon pointed his catalyst at Seath's head, focussing as a large cloud of darkness broke off from his fist with a blunt _phwiff_. Seath snapped his head to the side to dodge the projectile before letting loose a discharge of his own. The undead was hard-pressed to escape the assault from above as multiple rounds of Seath's crystal breath tore the ground asunder below him, causing Argon to dash and weave through and around the azure hail.

The dragon growled impatiently at his inaccuracy before deciding to simply crush him with brute force. Argon fell prey to a claw that clipped his shoulder, tearing the muscle in his shoulder as he went sprawling against the floor. The dragon saw his chance and launched a tail forward, cracking against the undeads spine.

"Ack!" the crazed undeads eyes widened as he felt his vertebrae snap and pierce his insides as gravity caused his body to ricochet off the ground. He felt time slow down as Seath followed up with a rising pillar of rock that impaled his abdomen before time sped up as he was once again swatted by a pale backhand.

He skipped against the floor like a stone flung against the surface of a lake, bouncing once, twice, thrice; breaking new bones and experiencing fresh waves of pain with each impact before he finally reacted.

Splaying the broken fingers in his left hand, he summoned a weapon from his bottomless box to halt the constant up and down motions that were beginning to make him queasy. As his face neared the ground for the fourth time, he lunged in with his left arm, impaling the ground with the weapon so that he slid against the floor – stopping any further momentum from being built.

A deep sigh left his lips as his blood stained the navy surface he stood on. That short chain of attacks had been excellently timed, at least the lizard knew how to fight. He wondered if Seath would show him any unorthodox techniques like fem-boy had – he was just itching for another feel of that glittering blade of sunlight that had torn him in half the last time.

_Fwish_

"Hm?" the undead peered down as he felt the sudden burst of flame warm his side. To his amusement, he noted that the weapon he had spontaneously drawn had been none other than his coiled bonfire sword.

Spitting out the broken tooth he felt swimming around in his mouth, the undead decided to use this opportunity to his advantage, tapping the hilt of the bronze-coloured blade. "How _convenient_."

He hadn't known how the sword could summon a bonfire without a Keeper present or the signature ashes and bones underneath the blazing hearth but Argon didn't argue. As it was, he had considered taking just a slight rest before he allowed himself to _really_ break loose.

Seath didn't bother to retaliate, for whatever reason he had conjured in that bulbous head of his. Argon chuckled as he felt his bones snap back into place and his flesh sizzle as his wounds close up. He didn't like to be that guy, but Seath would regret not killing him when he had the chance.

When less than a minute had passed by, the undead launched himself forward once more, running closer to the ground on all fours like some feral hellhound. The dragon, who looked to have also benefited from the short repose, reacted by slamming a hand against the ground.

The undead closed his amber eye to get a better look at what the paledrake was plotting when he saw the rush of twin streams of magic swim underneath him and circle a space of six metres in diameter. He laughed to himself before jumping.

Almost instantly, the ground rose up to meet him, a cluster of a dozen spikes attempting to skewer him. Argon was about to lash out with a pyromancy when a thought occurred to him regarding his foe.

Whilst Seath was the Father of Sorcery, and all that, he was still a puny dragon – meaning that his weakness against lightning-based attacks was still pretty apparent. The smile that lit his face managed to reach his ears as he landed on his feet and took off with a sprint. How had ne _not _realised it sooner?

A shaft of crystal attacked from his flank but he jumped over it, using the elevated object as a platform to leap higher. He held out his right hand as more Abyssal energy swarmed his body, turning his entire right side into a rough shadow of writhing veins and violet flames. Seath's hand approached him once more and he grinned; maybe this time he could amend his prior attempt?

The dragon snarled when his clawed hands met nothing but air, his superior senses picking up on the outline of the Chosen Undead flipping over the strike in mid-air, drawing a spear, and stabbing into his wrist as he landed on the dragon's arm.

The pure wave of electrical energy that scorched his flesh and ran up his veins made the paledrake cry out before anger filled his head. He had not guessed that he would ever see _this_ weapon again. And the fact that the _undead_ possessed it just fuelled the burning anger in Seath even more.

Argon smirked as he saw his scaleless foe spasm momentarily. That had worked better than he had assumed it would. Moreover, now that he had Seath's undivided attention, he could have some fun.

Using the same tactic as before, Argon raced up Seath's arm. The dragon roared as he tried to shake him off, but the Chosen Undead didn't loose his hold on the large arm as he continued his sprint. Seath clenched his other hand into a fist, drawing the natural magic around them into his palm as he prepared to create another squall of blue. Argon refused to let that happen as he charged the spear in his hand, its sleek haft shining white as the lengthy blade crackled with power. He thrust the spear forward, the end glowing like a bright star before lighting shot out, catching Seath directly in the eye.

_POW!_

The wail the Duke uttered left a sadistic grin on Argon's face as he hopped off the arm and hit the floor. Seath was too busy clutching his head in pain as his Primordial Crystal struggled to repair the damage wrought by the weapon of a Dragonslayer. Frankly, Argon had quite forgotten that he had pillaged Ornstein's spear from his corpse. He would have thought that out of everything that had happened to him from his arrival in Lordran, that piece of memory would be something he remembered clearly. Then again, he recalled that he was Argon, and even when walking around in his past persona of nihilism, even _he_ agreed that the announcement of his own name was troublesome enough.

The undead approached the Duke's pale stomach as he writhed about, his tails crashing against the ground, causing the room to shake. He hadn't understood just how bad the affects of a curse could be until staring at the mass of crystal slowly taking over Seath's lower half. He could only imagine the pain the dragon felt each waking moment, the feeling of being eaten alive by your own power. The corruption on his right side _might_ have been similar in that regard, but the undead digressed. He would just have to… _aide_ the dragon with regard to his suffering.

Without wasting a single second, Argon tossed the Dragonslayer Spear into his left hand before charging it up with lighting again. He took a step forward and slashed upwards with the weapon, opening a clean vertical eye within the centre of the beast's body. With his right hand, Argon cocked back his arm before plunging it into Seath's body.

The dragon made a confused noise, turning his body to the side. Argon comically followed the movement as his fingers dug into the Duke's flesh, feeling around for something as the wound he cut sealed over, slowly crushing his arm from the shoulder down.

The undead didn't stop his exploration, even as he felt the thick skin of the dragon begin to clamp down on his elbow, cracking the bone with the contraction on either side of the appendage.

He knew it was somewhere around here. He had _seen_ its aura glow with each fresh breath of magic the paledrake breathed. It was only a matter of time before he finally discovered its hiding pla-

_Ah._

Argon grinned as his fingers wrapped around the side of something that didn't feel warm and fleshy. He knew he had found what he was looking for too since he could literally feel the ancient magic permeate against his invading limb.

" _Finally_, we can end this charade."

Seath attempted to reach out and grab him but froze when he felt a sudden intrusion of heat pool within his body. His head snapped back and he screeched when he felt something intense begin to burn through his innards.

The pyromancy flame burst to life on Argon's trapped hand as his fingers groped around the Primordial Crystal within Seath's body. In truth, he had to hand it to the dragon for being so clever. He would have never thought of hiding such a vulnerable source of immortality in plain sight. However, now that he thought about it, it did make sense how the gemstone was slowly poisoning him from the inside out.

Even so, now that he had found the bane of his battle, he could destroy it. And the best way to rid the world of useless junk was to use extremely prejudice – via grand measures of power.

Argon chuckled as his burning fingers sunk into the crystal like a knife through butter, squeezing down hard enough to feel the object crack and chip within the dragon's body. Seath wailed out, trying his best to tear him away from his treasure but each time the paledrake attempted to attack him, Argon would only squeeze down on the crystal harder.

Eventually, he grew bored of this torture and summoned a great flame to encase his hand, his arm and the inside of Seath's belly as he readied himself for self-immolation. He knew this was going to hurt, which was why he looked forward to it the most.

"And why an explosion, you say?" the undead whispered to no-one in particular as the inside of Seath lit up like a brilliant light.

"Because art… is an _explosion!_"

_FWOOSH- SHABOOOM!!!_

Both parties found themselves rebounding from the point of the implosion. Seath barely moved an inch due to his size but the reaction his body made from the sheer amount of pain felt from both his organs and source of immortality exploding caused him to crash against the wall and thrash about animalistically.

Argon's mind went into shock as he felt his arm being ripped off from the blast, and the eruption of magic from the Primordial Crystal ensured his tumbled back far enough to hit the opposite wall with a loud _splat!_

He laughed manically, despite his pain. It was just too hilarious for his sadistic mind to comprehend as he watched Seath bleed profusely. All that tough bravado and the dragon keeled over due to an internal _implosion?_ How disappointing yet also satisfying. That _had_ to hurt.

Similarly, he was enduring the same amount of blood loss – so much so that he could feel his consciousness begin to slip. But by this point he didn't particularly care whether he passed out or not, he had just proved to that blubbering fool within his mindscape that the Everlasting Dragon was nothing but a nude lizard.

Shaking off the fatigue, he stood up on wobbly knees, gulping down healthy amounts of Estus as he made his way back to the paledrake. He had lost Ornstein's spear somewhere, but that was of no concern. He wanted to use his hands anyway.

Feeling the soothing numbness of the Estus work on his body, Argon decided to look at his severed right arm and raised an eyebrow at what he found.

Whilst said limb had possessed a cocoon of the Abyss over it and had been swarming with enough abysmal energy to flood a cathedral, it had not protected him from the Chaos Fire he had set to detonate within Seath's belly. Additionally, it seemed that the Estus, the only saving grace in this hellhole called Lordran, could _not_ regrow lost limbs. He should have expected as much but the mere fact that his assumption had been correct was amusing, still. Although, he wasn't opposed to fighting with a handicap; he had been doing so ever since he had arrived in this dead land.

After taking a few more steps forward, the undeads boot made contact with an object that clanged against it, echoing round the destroyed cave pocket. He looked down and a smile washed over his face.

_How convenient._

Bending over to retrieve his gold tracer, he turned back to Seath. Although he had lost all inhibitions of the self to prove a point, he was still here to claim something. It was a shame though, they had come all this way, fought this hard and it was only for a _shard_ of the bearded bastard's soul? Talk about overcompensation.

"You can still dance, _can't you_?" the dragon lifted his blind gaze Argon's way and the undead snickered. Seath had spent eons crafting that crystal, tinkering with it, ad infinitum, in order to achieve the immortality his brothers and sisters were born with. He had become one of the greatest minds in the world and stood above the pecking order as one of the last Everlasting Dragons alive. And then here the undead came and swiped it all away with cunning insanity and more than one way to piss off a dragon. He almost felt like shedding a tear for such an achievement.

However, his good time came to an end when the dragon snarled with such fury that Argon felt it vibrating in his chest. The reaction made him grin maliciously. He was going to _enjoy_ the outcome of this bout.

The pillar of rock that struck him not two seconds later possessed enough force to shatter his jaw and leave his tongue lolling out of his mouth. He felt his body sway backwards only for a second shaft to smash into his back, elevating him back to his feet before a chilling blast of crystal darts splashed against his front, pock-marking his bare chest with cobalt shrapnel.

Argon collapsed with a squelch, staring up at the falling column of mineral that aimed to turn him to paste. He coughed out a dry chuckle. He knew he had pushed the dragon's buttons to the max, but he hadn't expected him to react with such ferocity. Honestly, it was getting him excited.

The falling hunk of crystal neared the prone undead, aided by gravity to smash him flat. Unfortunately, just before it could touch land again, Argon raised his hips and threw his legs to the side. He rolled over like dog but managed to prevent his other arm from joining its mate, rising to his knees and craning his neck to ease the stiffness.

"Yeah… let's not have a repeat of last time."

He took a few deep breaths, focussing on the Abyss that worked overtime to repair itself over his skin, their crumbling surroundings that oozed natural energy, and of course, the wounded paledrake grunting on the other side of the room.

As if a switch had been flipped, the rushing noise in his head evaporated and only silence remained. He settled his thoughts on the violence he would bring, the carnage his lone hand could deliver, and the burning desire to administer his twisted sense of judgement to the sinful of this world.

As he felt the last wisps of air leave his lungs, his legs responded automatically, powering through the pain and numbness, aiding his blade to reach its target as he leapt over an incoming wall of crystal, sliding under the slow, but deadly right claw the dragon sent his way.

The world once more crawled to a snail's pace as he allowed his mind to run rampant, unleashing the smothering dose of adrenaline within his system that caused his heart to spasm in his chest. Right now, at this moment, within this space… he felt immeasurable euphoria – a sudden surge of unlimited strength, as if he were empowered with Dunamis itself.

The dragon shrieked when his tracer cut into his pale flesh once more, he assumed that his resistance to pain had gradually lessened after he had destroyed that frail fragment of the past stored within his stomach. And truthfully, he revelled in such an outcome – the echoing agony fuelling him to lose control, give way to instinct and borrow a piece of carnality.

The grinding cogs in his head paused when he was lashed by a titanic tail before they began their steady clinking anew, ignoring the blow as if it had never happened in the first place.

The sounds that filtered through Argon's head grew less and less. It seemed his psyche rejected all information besides the Duke before him. It wasn't an issue; he couldn't care less. All he wanted was to keep this state of mind going. It had been _so_ long since the world turned red like this.

_"Enough."_

The undead raised an eyebrow. What was that? Why did that voice sound so familiar?

_"I said enough."_

Ohh, he understood now… it was him speaking. Although, at the same time, it wasn't. The _real_ him, then. It seemed that pitiful lout had finally stolen his muchness back.

_"You've had your fun. Now revert."_

Revert? Where to? As far as he was aware, there was nowhere to really go _to_ after his job of purging a near-extinct race was over. Furthermore, what made the other him think that he _wanted_ to go back? He was quite content to remain right here, as he should be.

_"He doesn't need to die,"_ the real Argon's voice reverberated through his head as he carved two more lines into the great dragon's hide, watching in fascination as the blood sprayed out like a punctured wineskin. _"Or do you want to endure another mistake like the last one?"_

"What makes you think I'll make the same mistake?" he asked out loud as Seath vomited out another stream of magic, hitting him at close range and burning everything from his corneas to the soles of his feet.

The assault of the dragon's status affect swarmed under his skin as he used the Abyss to absorb it, in turn allowing the black veins to spread further across his chest and curl around his left hip. He rose to his feet only to be smashed to the ground by a great hand, the loud snap of his ribs sounding loudly as the dragon wailed down on him, utilising his tails in the process.

Argon let the hits come, staying motionless, allowing his body to be battered as he debated internally with himself.

_"You can't kill him. Even when returned to mortal form, Seath is still too great for you to face. Just look at what he's done to you already."_

Argon's eye twitched. The only reason he seemed beat was because he had purposefully left himself open. Otherwise this battle would have been come to a close long ago. To even insinuate that his power was weaker to a coward like _Seath_ was profane.

_"Pfft. Yeah, keep telling yourself that."_

He growled. The real him seemed pretty cocky all of a sudden. Whatever happened to that meek persona he had been ready to quash?

_"Fine then. If you won't calm yourself down, I will."_

Argon got to his knees and dashed out of the way before another tail could smack him into the floor. He flipped the tracer upside down in his grip and cut into the wrist of his foe as the pale hand clawed the space he had been standing in. Red liquid covered him from head to toe as he continued the one-handed dance of gold, his teeth grinding together as anger took over.

So, his other self thought his power was insufficient, did he? So, he appeared to be biting off more than he could chew? Well, he would just have to take things up another no-

_SPLOSH_

"Ugh?" he frowned and stared down at his chest. He had been impaled by a serrated shaft of crystal. He tried to pull his body out of it but found his legs unresponsive. He frowned and looked down to see his legs quickly being submerged by stone.

This was odd, he thought he had purged the growing assault of the dragon's curse beforehand-

His eyes widened before he snarled. So, now it was a battle against both the blasphemous Duke and himself. How the odds proved to be forever against him.

But before he could bother to do anything about the situation he was in, he felt a strange sensation bubbling within him before his stomach lurched, his body convulsing as he retched.

"Mngh- blegh!"

Dark ichor, thicker than mud and lumpier than coal covered the floor. Argon shivered before tensing up, the tendons on his neck straining as something vile forced its way up his throat and out his mouth. With a gag, he spewed out more of the bubbling tar, staining his feet obsidian as the Abyss surrounding his torso began emitting more poisonous vapour.

Argon's breaths grew laboured as he felt his strength being sapped away. The real him was a fool. Blocking his control over the Abyss and allowing Seath's curse to take over was just delaying his plans. However, if he couldn't regain dominion over the corruption that wasn't wasting any time consuming what was left of his body, there would be no use in relenting his control over their mindscape if it meant complete corruption. He needed to do something to break his other self's influence, and before he was consumed by both this petrifying curse and the agitating Abyss.

Seath stared down at the Chosen Undead as he emptied more putrid essence onto the floor of his domain. Although he couldn't exactly see the undead, he knew the besmirched feel of Primeval Man's composition.

Whilst he was still enraged at the fact that a mere human had managed to destroy the source of his immortality, he was not directing his fury toward him due to the destruction of his crystal. Instead, he felt compelled to release his rage at the undead solely because he was undead.

This weak race, this mortal being had come to his Archive with the intent of rescuing his friend. And while the sentiment had been amusing enough for the Duke to entertain himself with, the fact that this elusive and complicated animation of legend had actually _harmed_ him, the Father of Sorcery and wisest of entities was an insult he could not turn his nose away from.

But now, things seemed to have taken a change. He had known for a long time that the undead harboured a vestige of the Abyss within him, that had been one of the reasons he had fled to his cave. Not out of fear but for preparation. For within this sanctuary of his was an unlimited sea of natural energy cultivated by this ancient land. A source of power he as both an Everlasting Dragon and advent of magic could draw upon with the use of the Primordial Crystal.

It had been clear from their first encounter that the elusive undead was able to channel the twisted amalgamation of humanity's hatred, and that was why Seath had submerged himself within his crystalline domain, where the curse that tainted his magic could also be used to whittle down the nuisance that was the Abyss.

And now, after both parties had suffered much and lost tremendous power, the dragon discovered the victor of this match. After all, it was only a matter of time until the human mind would begin to wage war on itself, such was the affect the Void possessed on those infected by its plight.

The surge of vile energy masked the room and make Seath growl. Although this battle had been eventful, it was time to douse the flame of his foe. He didn't fancy the growth of Abyss, especially not within his domain.

With a huff, Seath raised a claw in the air, directing it above the retching undead before sending it downward. The ivory tip of the sharp weapon cracked a hole through the ground, spearing straight through the Chosen Undeads head like a pierced grape.

Instantly, the rise of such a smothering substance stopped, and Seath felt the sweet rush of decadent souls' flit into his body. How interesting.

He slithered passed the bloodstain on the floor as the Chosen Undead evaporated into spots of white. There was much to be done after this unexpected visit, the first item on his agenda being to heal his wounded body…


	28. Chapter 28

The bonfire situated near the remains of the fake Primordial Crystal flared as if someone had thrown water into its centre. The flames that swirled around the coiled sword thickened for a moment, the warming atmosphere it exuded growing in range. Then, without anyone's consent, it collapsed in on itself before bursting with a loud _fwoosh,_ depositing a half nude, hollow man with a crop of long, semi-parted hair.

Argon kneeled before the orange flames, the shadows that served for his eyes staring blankly at the rusted sword hilt in front of him. He had been killed. That had been clear. The spread of the Abyss had halted as well, the thick and thin black veins frozen as they attempted to shield his pale skin from the light of day.

He felt odd, even as he flexed his reformed right hand and petted the point at the back of his head where Seath had impaled and silenced him not even a few seconds ago.

Wait, _had_ they been mere seconds ago? Or had it been some time from then? The rate at which bonfires brought back undead were always unpredictable. It was only through dumb luck that he had been instantly reborn when fighting Gwyndolin, so how could he be certain the same situation pertained to his current predicament?

Oh. That was how. He could see Seath wounded as he turned around, slowly slithering to the exit of the cave pocket. He would have thought the dragon would have at least made sure that the bonfire he knelt at was destroyed before leaving… but then again, he didn't think the paledrake _knew_ it was even here – otherwise he would have revived elsewhere.

As Argon rose to his feet, he recognised that the him currently in control was still the past him. He also felt the odd swirl of unquenchable thirst grow in the back of his throat. It felt annoying, but he stood there, leathery skin and empty soul staring at the Everlasting Dragon with a hunger for flesh he hadn't had in a _long_ while.

_So **this** is what feels like as a hollow, eh? _

He took a step forward and allowed the rush of anger, depravity, hunger, and ravenousness overwhelm his body, along with his original desires to see the Duke dead at his feet. He couldn't lie, it was all intoxicating, probably one of the reasons so many undead before him had resigned to their fate after their weak will's had been shattered to pieces. However, with as much power as going hollow might have given, the drawbacks were also as great.

Mindlessness was not something Argon enjoyed, in fact, he despised it. The loss of the ability to think for yourself was too great a feat to accept. Furthermore, it dulled your senses. He had already seen it with Oscar when he had visited his prison for a rusted ring and another bottom-heavy demon. The knight may have retained his skills as an Elite of his fallen kingdom, but he had been sloppy, had fought out of desperation, not for the thrill. An outcome like that… was not something either versions of the Chosen Undead wanted to acquire.

The other consequences of the Darksign taking over completely, was the eternal hunger. As an undead, one did not crave anything besides the feeling of being human once more. They did not require sleep, food, not drink to sustain them, the complete opposite of hollowing. And Argon refused to be some mindless drone, lusting obliviously for something he could never attain again.

However, there was _one_ positive with being almost hollow… and it allied itself extremely close to the heretical arts known as Pyromancy.

"He-he… he-he-he… haaa…"

Seath stopped in his tracks at the sound of that slow, deliberate, and menacing laughter. He didn't need to overthink it to realise who it was that still remained alive behind him, but he still sniffed the air for proof of their existence. When the familiar foul stench of the Abyss, undead, and a Divine Sin flooded his palate like a wave of filth, he hissed, turning around as the room around him began to glow with magic. He had forgotten how much of an inconvenience undead could be, especially when they were disposed of incorrectly.

Argon heard the paledrake rally his power but didn't bother to make a move. He was too busy getting giddy over the fact that he had honestly forgotten he possessed this form of strength. And after he had used so many dark sorceries too; he would have assumed that his brain would have remembered about _that_ type of magic by now.

"Oh _well_…" he lowered his regrown right hand to pick up the Dragonslayer Spear laying next to the bonfire, a few large chunks of rock almost obscuring it from sight. "At least all the _parameters_ have been met. All that's left to do is… _enjoy_ it. Keh-he-he-haaa."

He hadn't really felt the need for more power because he had known he was more than strong enough. But after facing so _many_ difficult odds against foes that could and did trounce him in every aspect besides intelligence and relentlessness… he felt it was about time he _evened_ the odds. And what better way of doing so than to _finally_ give in to that burning desire to grow stronger? The power he possessed had not complained when he had made his decision, so he would use it to his advantage. That _was_ what it was for, after all.

Settling his face into a mask of pure joy – even if it _did_ seem twisted – the undead turned around. The black holes that served as his eyes peered at Seath who had been accumulating quite the plentiful amount of magic. He suspected the dragon would try to end this in one move. It wasn't as refined as his previous methods but who could blame him? The Duke _was_ half dead as he faced ff against Argon for the umpteenth time.

The violet essence of the Abyss grew in strength as he used it to enhance his abilities, the casual flow of the vapour snapping taut and fluctuating into a violent storm of flames, the colour shifting to indigo. He was more than excited to get this fight over with. If anything, he was over the dark moon that could still remain conscious despite the frail position his current self stood in.

Yet, even if things _were_ dire within himself, he would not stop himself from revelling in this glorious opportunity; to tear flesh from bone, hear screams from giants, scales off of dragons, and most especially, destroy the hope instilled in all those sinners that dare wave around their false gods as shields to the slaughter.

Flexing his right hand, he summoned his Pyromancy Flame, concentrating on the swirling madness within, the pure desire, the _greed_ to be made stronger and fighter better. He allowed a smidge of his near-hollow state to reign over his emotions that sparked with more than just bloodlust and annihilation, but the desperation of his real self, too. He harnessed that feeling, the measly emotion of inferiority the real him stuck in their mindscape had previously possessed, used it to bolster the growing power surging through his hand, up his arm, through the Abyss and into his Darksign.

And then, all of a sudden, he felt it _explode_.

Dark flames, onyx and ambiguous in shape, that flickered and flacked around his palm before extending to his wrist. The burn felt unreal, yet not as painful as he assumed it would be for his human state. Nevertheless, he chuckled loudly as he gripped that orb of darkness tighter, its flames burning hot and cold as the spear in his left hand crackled with lightning, awaiting the taste of dragon flesh.

Neither party waited for a signal as they charged forward. They just began their assault.

This time, it was the Chosen Undead who made the first move, charging the head of his spear with such brilliant magic that the blade's colour turned off-white. With breathless excitement, he stabbed forward, watching the thin trail of pure yellow lightning advance.

Seath, in turn, called forth a complete wall of solid rock as his protection. The bolt of energy struck it with enough force to rattle the floor before its kinetic reserves faded away. Argon didn't bother to charge another bolt as he hurled his dark fire forward. The uneven orb of pyromancy glowed ethereally it washed over the wall ravenously.

The result was immediate. Shocking for the Duke, entertaining for the Chosen Undead.

Long tongues of flame licked every nook and cranny of the deep blue wall, erasing its magic, burning its base element, and spreading onto the space that shielded Seath from the blast.

Argon grinned. Fire that didn't go out, powered by hate and hunger that was unlimited in its source. Why had he not used this on fem-boy when he had the chance?!

Seath covered his face from the heat of the flames. It was strange that the undead could still manage to summon such power after he had reached his summit as a regular human. It was more astonishing that the Duke did _not_ have _knowledge_ of this phenomenal art, however. He had poured over the element of Pyromancy since its genesis, having been one of the rare few to witness the Witch craft the very first firestorm with her power, and her eldest daughter perfect the branch that ancient magic had taken.

He had sent spies to watch Salaman, Carmina, and even those dim wanderers of the skill, that formed cheap imitations of its actual radiance.

But after all this time, he had not seen such a violent form of the Izalithian technique, nor come across how it came to be so vastly powerful as compared to the demonic Chaos counterpart.

Unfortunately, before he could even begin to analyse the spell, he was interrupted by another bolt of lightning that stabbed into his arm, its wild energy going snicker-snack before the undead reached his position; that billowing flame growing once more in his hand as he cackled excitedly.

"AH-HA-HA-HA-HA! Purge thine transgressions, reprobate. Witness my… AMATERASU!"

If the feeling of Chaos Fire torching his body from the inside out and cooking his organs medium-rare had not been pain enough, the sensation of being set ablaze by this dark flame had become agony incarnate.

Seath roared, his head snapping up to meet the sky as he was roasted alive. The flames had not struck him like an ordinary Pyromancy, they had latched onto him like the jaws of a dangerous predator. The blister of its heat had not plastered his skin with sizzling flame, it had spread to every pore on his body before it grew to such coldness that the burn began to resemble a scorch, and then a singe; followed by the physical impact of it being thrown at him.

The pain had felt more than unreal, and for a few moments as he writhed in such unbearable torture, he _actually_ began to feel the first flickers of fear corrode his psyche.

The worst part about the undeads fire was that it did not subside. Instead, it spread to everything it could before burning it to nothingness – even the air itself was not safe from such torment.

As Seath steadily burned in the fires of his purgatory, Argon dived forward, two-handing the Dragonslayer Spear as its unbreakable blade met soft flesh. This pulled another agonising roar from the dragon as the undead ran, roughly tugging the blade with him, haft digging into the open wound he made. The deep red line he left against cold, pale white flesh made his artistic side blossom with pride as a torrent of heavy blood sheeted the floor, the broken wall, and his feet with beautiful crimson.

The dragon clenched his fists as he was sent into hell for a second time, screeching loud enough for Anor Londo to hear him as his innards threatened to escape his body. This was bad, he realised as he attempted to stem the bleeding with an application of crystal to seal over most of the clean cut.

He had not anticipated such power from a being so weak. Furthermore, he could not endure such pain much longer as the black fire spread around his body. He needed to dispel this plague, no matter the cost.

"Aw, What's the _matter_ scaleless? I thought you still had some oomph in you!" the undead teased sadistically.

Seath ignored him, opening his maw an inch as he channelled an azure flame to settle against his tongue. He knew he was already weakened thanks to the destruction of his Primordial Crystal, but after his slippery foe had gained such terrifying magic, he was hard-pressed to defend himself.

He would have to dose himself in his attack if he hoped to gain some space. Anything was better than suffering through _this_ eternity.

With a growl, he clamped down on the orb, its fragile core going astray as it flooded from his mouth, covering his body and the black fire in blazing caerulean. Argon jumped back to distance himself but ended up being washed in the blaze himself.

He gasped as his body was set alight, and he was sure that if he had eyes they would have been melted off in the process. He fell on his back, rolling around to subvert the attack as the flames in his own hand snuffed out.

Seath, meanwhile, breathed through bruised lungs as he peered down at the undead, irate as he felt his consciousness slip for a moment.

Powerful or not, he intended to end this undead for good, enough time had been wasted and too many resources had been spent to ensure the undead of legend a painful death. This would end now.

Summoning more magic into his chest, Seath fired a beam of magical energy directly at Argon as he continued to pat out the fire on his body. His scream that had been a strange chuckle at the residual flames had erupted into a fit of uncontrollable laughter as Seath's ray of magic pinned him to the floor, cursed stalagmites rushing up to impale him as the floor caved in.

All the while Argon simply revelled in the pain, the sweet ecstasy of being hurt to such degrees filling his body with untold amounts of rapture. He panted, a wrinkled smile on his face as he sat up, pulling out a spike from his leg that crumbled to pieces as he crushed it in his hand. Oh, Seath was a treat.

He rose to his feet shakily only to choke on the blood in his mouth as four jagged tendrils of crystal impaled him simultaneously, two going through his stomach, the others running into his chest and right shoulder.

He was slammed into the floor by an angry tail soon after, the seemingly sentient shafts of rock snaping from the impact as he landed on his back again – which was now shattered in several places.

Seath snarled down at him and he grinned wider, reaching up his right hand to blast that maw of his off when he felt the floor give up beneath him. Through blurry eyes, he watched the Duke as his body slid through the hole, falling into the bottomlessness that was the Crystal Cave.

Seath huffed out a breath as Argon fell, and the undead had to offer a weak laugh. That had been unexpectedly exciting.

The emptiness rose up to swallow his battered form as he descended the levels of the Cave, passing multiple other moonlight butterflies thoughtlessly resting on jutting out pieces of land. He couldn't recount how long he had been falling for, or when his body had grown numb and unresponsive from both the barrage of his foe and the drawbacks of utilising his black fire, but he knew it would end eventually.

And so he fell. And fell. And fell…

* * *

Seath cradled his arm as he used the natural magic around him to partially heal his wounds. That Dark Pyromancy had been unforgiving, unforgettable, too. However, he had managed to dispose of the undead yet again. Now the only thing to do was destroy the Chosen Undeads method of revival.

He turned his head round as his arm repaired itself. If he had known the trouble these bonfires commandeered, he would have never permitted them in his Archive – Gwyndolin be damned. It was curios though, that a system of fires could be maintained by sightless Keepers… hmm, it was a shame he had been prohibited from taking one into his depths for experimentation – not that the Darkmoon's decree would have stopped him from doing so if he had really wanted to.

He approached the bolstered fire, breathing in deeply before he expelled a torrent of his crystal breath. Whether or not he found it interesting, he could not allow the undead to revive in the same vicinity twice, he was too drained to endure such an energetic and clearly mentally unstable foe again when he had grown this powerful in mere moments.

However, it seemed that his ideals were not to be when he cut off the powerful spell to see the bonfire perfectly intact, as if his magic had been but a breeze to the sentient vestige of the First Flame. Seath reached up a hand to grab his chin. Perhaps _because_ it was a vestige of the Flame was the reason his attack did nothing to it. If that was correct then there was literally no way to destroy it.

The dragon growled. That could only mean-

_Fwoosh!_

"Ah, did you _miss_ me that much?" Argon cackled out as he started up at the Duke, his body once again ablaze with abysmal energy and Dark Pyromancy.

Seath roared before slamming a hand against the ground, sending thousands of stalagmites to strike the undead. His aim was true – if one could call making nearly the entire floor a death zone accurate – and he heard the Chosen Undead gasp as the force of the spikes sent him flying ten feet above ground. As much as this attack would have added a boost to his confidence, right now all he felt was utter annoyance. He hated being right all the time.

Argon flipped himself over as he fell back to solid ground, throwing an orb of pure black fire toward the dragon. Seath felt it coming and raised more than one wall of crystal to intercept the projectile.

However, what he had not expected, out of his wildest dreams and insane imagination, was for that smaller ball of Pyromancy to break through not the first and second, but all the _third_ wall of rock he had erected at a moment's notice.

The paledrake quickly sucked in air before breathing out a stream of blue energy at the unstoppable ball; he was _not_ going to endure more of that hell, especially after he had observed the undeads use of the potent spell.

To his relief, the stream of magic caused the orb to dissipate, leaving nothing bit faint wisps of black smoke in the air as Seath sighed out. Now, if only the creator of said orb would also dissap-

"POP goes the _weasel_!"

Seath shrieked as he felt a greatsword cleave through his middle tail, severing off the tip as easily as cutting meat from a meal. What came after was white hot pain that stung his nerves and sent his mind alight as the undead flooded his open wound with more of that accursed Pyromancy.

He had thought that the initial show of that power had been all it was capable of. And yet, now just a mild configuration of that attack had given him more trouble than before. Had the undead been holding back? No, he was too delirious to think smart. Then it meant he was possibly growing stronger… but how? Was it the delirium that fuelled such intensity, or an unbendable willpower that forced him to exude such strength? Perhaps he was relying on the Abyss too much, this the additional force he could suddenly use, the best example being how easily he seemed to be swinging around that greatsword of his with one hand. But then that didn't explain the increased intensity of the flame upon his hand.

Seath wracked his brain for answers as he fought back, body exhausted but mind alert. Pyromancy is an art that invoked one's spirit into their flames, relying on will and determination to strengthen the potency of the burn instead of faith or intelligence. That was one of the reasons why it was dubbed a heretical art. If the Chosen Undeads flame was growing stronger, it meant his will was developing an iron resolve. However, that couldn't be the reason since the half-corrupted undead barely understood anything besides his own bloodlust at the moment.

Which in turn meant that there was something else fuelling his flame for it to grow stronger. The dragon analysed every detail of it as he pummelled the Chosen Undead to the floor, striking him down a second time with a tendril of crystal as the crazed being merely laughed at his wounds and stood up again.

Could it be the Sin upon his soul that drove to this additional enhancement of those black flames? He recalled certain sorceries that required the status of a Sin to fully activate the potential of an incantation. Could this Pyromancy be related in that regard? If so, why had the Sin only chosen to enhance his affinity for the technique now?

The dragon hissed as the undead stabbed a poisoned blade into one of his other tails before a Silver Knight Sword chopped into the open wound on his abdomen. He reacted with a strong backhand that sent the undead smashing into a column of rock before he charged and fired his crystal breath at him as he fell.

This Pyromancy was stronger than Chaos Flame, and it also enhanced the undeads resistance to pain and damage. If he were to go down the list of notable Pyromancies, Power Within would be the only logical choice to explain the high tolerance – excluding the maniacal personality and Abyssal influence, of course.

However, that technique drained the caster's life force, and since the undead didn't care for his life much, Seath could understand the sacrifice for greater fuel to his fire. And yet… he did not sense any of said technique being cast upon the undead. So, how exactly had his foe grown to such lengths of power in a such a short space of time? Surely his death wasn't bolstering his flame… or was it?

The undead had died twice now, and yet he still had not reverted to his human form, he could sense that much from the scent of rotten flesh in the air. It made sense that perhaps fighting after each resurrection was a better plan than stopping to regain their humanity but… it wasn't really a plausible answer either.

And then it hit the paledrake with so much force that his head swam in confusion.

Hollowing. It was the reason the undead was growing stronger. Normally, an undead with his humanity reinstated fought better due to regaining control over his thoughts. Hollows were the opposite, immensely single-minded yet exponentially strong, nonetheless.

As long as one still retained their will to live, they could remain in a near-hollow state for as long as they wanted to. It wouldn't matter how close they got to becoming a true hollow, as long as they didn't lose hope.

And the Chosen Undead had a constitution almost as impressive as Artorias. Meaning he wouldn't grow hollow any time soon, which also meant that each time the Duke killed him, he would come back stronger.

Seath ground his sharp teeth together. If that was true then there was no use even fighting the undead. Killing him would just make him stronger, and as far as he was concerned, his ability to use even a small portion of his other magic was all but impossible after the Primordial Crystal had been destroyed.

He was truly in a predicament now. The Chosen Undead was like a literal blockade, cornering him to accept but a singular outcome: death.

The thought of dying didn't scare the Everlasting Dragon, the thought of leaving behind his research did. But how would he be able to win against an enemy like the unhinged individual before him who never seemed to tire, no matter how many times he threw him around; and never appeared to be wounded – as afforded to him by that burning Abyss on his right side.

So, the Father of Sorcery chose the only option he saw possible at a time like this when he was at his weakest.

He allowed himself to go similarly insane.

* * *

Argon was having the time of his life, attacking Seath, cutting swaths into his flesh and being struck just as hard. The pain didn't faze him, it encouraged him to fight harder. The brokenness and bleeding he sustained were almost completely numbed by both the Abyss and his own adrenaline – not to mention how much more painful it was to use a single casting of his Dark Pyromancy.

He felt as if he were walking through a musty path of nostalgia, as if he were back in Carim, killing errant priests and tearing pitiful armies to shreds in the name of the League Lord Stein had initiated. The unadulterated exhilaration of this moment joined by the wondrous forms of power he utilised to slowly bring the great Duke of Anor Londo to a colossal corpse, was like acerbic liquid to his corrupted veins.

Honestly, he hadn't expected much from the Everlasting Dragon. His real self had feared too much, this would be an easy kill now that Seath's prized prism stone had been pulverised. And the results were all too obvious, what with the paledrake doing his utmost to remain at arm's length.

Even so, he had to hand it to the bug guy, he had held onto his wretched life far longer than Argon had expected.

A sudden shift of air made the undead turned his gaze toward said beast. Something seemed different, yet he could not place it – as if the mood had just changed. Was the dragon preparing to meet his brethren? Or did he suddenly think he could change the tide of battle?

The vortex of powerful magical energy that gathered around the wounded dragon told Argon is was the latter. He smiled, showing decayed teeth, this would be fun.

The shockwave the whirlpool of energy created was enough to send the ceiling crashing down on both of them, and Argon made a show of dancing around each massive slab of rock that attempted to crush him before the distinct clatter of steel reached his ears.

He looked a few feet in front of him to discover the glint of metal hiding under the rubble and approached it, kicking away some of the debris with his boot. What he found made his insides tingle with anticipation. So _that_ was where the dragon had hidden it. He was wondering what the paledrake was going to do with a weapon only one being could ever wield.

Flexing his fingers to ready himself, Argon reached down and grabbed the oaken shaft of the lengthy weapon, immediately feeling its pull as its status affects tore away at his body, filling his fingers with toxins as the Lifehunt Scythe tried to siphon away his soul.

He had liked this menacing tool of the Reapers in storybooks from the time he had met his pale-skinned companion in the Painted World. Although the real him hadn't admired weapons such as these, the past him begged to differ; for this was a _true_ executioner's blade.

He wrapped his fingers around the shaft and lifted it up, feeling the curses it contained that bit into his flesh like a swarm of piranhas. Such power that emanated from a simple weapon of atrocity, wielded by an atrocity, to _fight_ other atrocities. He almost envied Priscilla, dead as she was. The ideal killing machine for the beings that called themselves gods was something he truly aspired to be.

He heard Seath roar and turned, two-handing the scythe only to feel twice as much pain as before. It made him cackle with joy, a weapon that punished its user as much as it devastated its foes was a rarity indeed. He would forever treasure this moment if he survived to remember it.

Tall snakes of blue crystal descended from the falling ceiling as Argon once again ran to his prey, Priscilla's scythe glistening with the power of the Lifehunt. The dragon noticed its presence and growled, slithering forward as his hands glowed with soul energy, burning orbs of sorcery accumulating in his hands.

Argon grinned and pilled on the speed, sliding under the incoming spears of rock and slicing through a rising stalagmite that attempted to impale him through the chest. When he was a less than a jump away from the dragon, Seath barred down with his fists, twin explosions of hundreds of soul orbs bursting around the undead who simply took the damage, bled through it, and spun on his heel.

Seath punched a fist into to the area Argon was standing in before he opened his maw and unleashed a stream of magic, the spikes it created reaching six feet in the air. Argon sidestepped the incoming blaze and backstepped another fist that cratered the floor in front of him.

When the dragon was about to bring his fist back up, the undead struck. Two neat slashes against the back of the dragon's hand and both parties felt enormous pain as the Lifehunt Scythe went to work.

Seath's hand gushed an unstoppable flow of blood that none of his sorcery could heal, and Argon's body went taught as multiple cuts opened on his flesh, expelling dark essence and his own life essence. He felt more of his soul being eaten away by the greedy scythe and rasped as he stabled himself. _That_ had felt amazing. He wanted more.

He wasted no time as he rolled forward, legs springing him into a jump as his feet touched the ground again before he stabbed the wicked blade into Seath's stomach. The paledrake's scream caused his eardrums to burst yet he continued his maddened assault, tugging the shaft sideward as the Lifehunt tugged his lifeforce in the opposite direction.

The blade cut through the dragon's body like a hot knife through… well, soft flesh, and as Argon was washed in more crimson and experienced more of his life being drained by the weapon he wielded, he honestly could not think of a place he'd rather be.

"Urgh… Gah!" the organs in his body began to explode as more of the Lifehunt infected him, it was unlike the Abyss or the Dark Pyromancy he had used thus far. The pain was so much more unreal and with each swing he made with the hungry blade, the more he felt himself losing focus. The sheer power of this abominable ability had even petrified the Abyssal corruption to remain silent in all this.

His turn ended as he withdrew the scythe and plunged his right hand into the weeping wound. With another flare of dark magic, he lit up Seath's body like a bright flare in the night sky, eliciting tormented screams from the dragon before his unrighteous fury came down on the undead like a fallen tower.

The fist that came down flattened him against the floor like someone smoothing out paper, the spike that erupted from the ground raised him like the marble lift he used to traverse the lower levels of Anor Londo, and the cursed breath of Seath illuminated his injuries like glow worms nestled inside cracked walls.

Argon passed out momentarily, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as the Everlasting Dragon went savage on him, backhanding him in mid-air, sending him crashing into yet another wall before more columns of crystal rose from all sides to stop his momentum, piece almost every part of his body and leave him suspended as a concentrated blast of magic forced his already mutilated body to explode against the adjacent corner of the room.

It was a wonder how he had not died yet, knowing all the pain he had just gone through. Perhaps he was made this resilient on purpose so he could piss off the self-proclaimed 'gods' of this world. Or maybe his body was just as stubborn as his personality. Whichever it was, he wasn't complain one bit.

He awoke once the sharp spikes on the wall speared into his back, and he reacted with an spontaneous burst of Abysmal energy, destroying more of the cave pocket as he landed on his feet, right hand ablaze with black Pyromancy as he chucked it forward. He grinned maliciously, _now_ he was actually working up a sweat, now Seath was _finally_ playing the game Gwyndolin had not issue holding back for. What an exciting day this had been, filled with twists, turns, surprises and more carnage than he could remember in a _long_ time. He snapped his dislocated jaw back into place as his ball of destruction careened over the many weapons and broken crystals on the ground, descending to smite one Everlasting – and obviously exhausted – Dragon, the so-called Father of Sorcery. What a shame, the undead thought as he sniffed, wiping blood from his mouth. He had assumed Seath would be able to continue their brief scuffle after he had earned back the same fighting spirit he had once had in the old days. Well, at least he could acquire that Lord Soul now.

However, his coup de grace had been interrupted – for yet another agitating moment in time – when a flash of steel reached up and sliced his Pyromancy in two, absorbing the black fire into its gleaming blade.

Argon lowered his eyeless gaze and saw a panting crossbreed standing between him and her father, jade eyes burning with determination. The undead merely hacked up the phlegm from his throat and spat. "So you _didn't_ perish after all. How inconvenient."

"That's enough now, Argon." she said, her voice flat – void of any doubt as she stared him down.

"Enough? I don't believe you _understand_… I am _far_ from finished."

The crossbreed dug her heels deeper into the ground as she adjusted her grip on her scythe and took an unfamiliar stance. How had she retrieved her weapon from his hands, again? Oh, that was right, he had dropped it whilst being pummelled by her father. Wait… how had she even survived that indoor sun Seath had thrown her way?

Argon turned his head toward where he remembered she and the Archbishop had been standing when that giant ball of blue fire had been cast. He saw Havel's body lying there, more than half his armour crumbling as he lay motionless. Argon used his right eye to see the undeads aura.

_Ah._

So she had siphoned away his life to repair the damage done to her body. Not enough that it would kill the ancient holy man, but enough to ensure he slept through nearly everything that would transpire here today. How thoughtful of her, and yet how deplorable. For a woman that claimed not to be a monster, she most certainly didn't waste any time using those atrocious powers when it came to her own life.

"I need you back to the person you were before."

Argon scoffed. "Darling, this _is_ who I was before."

Priscilla shook her head, snowy tresses flowing about her head. "I need _my_ Argon back."

"What makes you think he _wants_ to come back?"

She pointed a finger at him and he stared down at his body, riddled with more scars and grievances than skin. "The Argon I know doesn't fight like that, doesn't allow a parasite to aide him in battle. He fights with his own strength. Moreover…" she turned her head to look sadly at her father, who was currently panting behind her, his crystals slowly covering his wounds as he sat there in pain.

"The Argon I know wouldn't kill recklessly. He would show mercy even with the most detestable of foes."

The Chosen Undead took a moment to drink from his Estus flask, grumbling when the incisions made by the Lifehunt Scythe took longer to heal.

"Then you really haven't met the _true_ Argon yet. He's the complete opposite of your whimsical fantasy. Only alive to wreak havoc upon the world and torment your every waking moment with eternal nightmares."

His bones popped and cracked as they healed and the undead paced forward, leathery face breaking into a stern glare.

"Now… walk _away_ from the dragon and I may end your life without having to make you swallow your own tongue."

Priscilla shook her head and tensed her body up.

"You're not going to kill him, not whilst you're still the shadow of your past."

"You're _defending_ the lizard that stole your life from you and tortured _thousands_… yet you still think he's worth saving?"

"Without a shadow of doubt."

Argon creased his eyebrows. "What gives you such confidence that Seath can change?"

She offered him a sad smiled. "You, of course."

The undeads mouth twisted into a snarl. "Foolish sinner, such a being with _never_ change, thus the requirement that one _end_ their cycle of profanity."

"If you could show mercy to the lost Fire Keeper, you can show mercy toward my father."

"The brass knightess lives only because her life is too pitiful to end."

"And yet you still stayed you hand."

"Why do place this must trust in me?" Argon frowned.

She smiled again. "You already know the answer to that."

He grit his teeth. She was getting on his last nerve. He was here to kill a dragon, not converse with its unwanted offspring. But whilst she had delayed the inevitable, her intervention availed him time to recuperate, time to refocus his thoughts.

"Whether you move or not, I'm _still_ going to kill you."

Her solemn nod only served to annoy his further. "If you think you can do it, I will be willing to spar with you."

The vein on Argon's temple throbbed as he drew Artorias' greatsword from his bottomless box, the Abyss flaring up on his right side. The time for talk was over. He had a pair of abominations to adjudicate.

"Last time I was in control, Gwyndolin stopped by wrath," he said as they both approached one another, her scythe glinting wickedly as he dragged his greatsword against the floor. "This time you won't be spared."

"I won't rest until you've returned to me, Argon." she replied with a cold glare. He was mildly surprised, perhaps she could put on just as good of a show as her old man.

"Foolish girl, I never left in the first place."

**(*Queue "Juugo Sai" by _Acid*_) **

Priscilla didn't wait for him to come to here as her feet left the ground, gliding over the debris and ruptured floor as her she swung her scythe towards his throat. As expected, his impressive strength enabled him to block, lazily flinging up his sword to clash against her weapon. Both blades collided with a sparking of metal as her boots touched the floor again. He reached out with his left hand to grab her but she backstepped, pivoting on her heel and slashing diagonally. The result was another clash of scythe against greatsword.

Argon took the initiative this time, throwing his shoulder into the swing as the giant blade soared through the air to cleave her in half. She had the mind to dash to his left and lash out with a kick.

His abs felt like unbreakable stone beneath her heel, yet she had enough force packed behind it to send him skidding back a few metres. When she lowered her leg to the ground, he was no longer standing there perplexed, but seven feet in the air, mid somersault as his blade prepared to send her six feet under.

Her eyes watched him use that momentum to propel the blade overhead. It was astonishing that he could be so dextrous with just a single hand, and that was coming from his own strength, not the Abyss.

A second before he could land a devastating hit on her, Priscilla leapt to the side again, the blade vibrating as it passed her shoulder and sliced into the crystalline surface. He growled and placed his other hand on the blades hilt, twisting his body as he delivered a strong scissor kick to the shaft of her scythe. Priscilla was forced back and had to dodge yet again when he tore his blade from the ground and slammed it down in front of her.

In an impressive display of control, he twisted his grip on the sword hilt and jerked it up, sending shards of blue in every direction before cocking his right arm back and stabbing forward. Her nimble feet danced around the blade and he replied by slamming his left hand against his forearm to cut sideways. She leaned backwards and watched the cursed blade sail above her face, just an inch from her nose before she straightened, flipping her scythe around and tearing a clean line across his stomach.

Argon yelled and dropped the greatsword, the feeling of the Lifehunt pulling out more of his strength as he attempted to turn around, only to feel resistance. He looked down and noticed that his ankles were encased in a thick layer of ice. That moment cost him when Priscilla placed two diagonal slashes against his spine, causing him to bleed like a burst fountain.

He stumbled forward as he shattered the ice with pure strength, curling a fist and turning back to sock the woman in her face when all he saw was shattered crystal. Growling loudly, Argon whipped his head around in search for the missing crossbreed. She reappeared a few seconds later behind him and he twisted, filling his fist with black fire as he punched her. The hit landed, however, the crunching of his fingers told him that was _not_ what her check should have felt like. A moment passed and the illusion faded, revealing a tall block of crystal. He smirked at her resourcefulness when her occultic blade bit into his ankle, severing the nerves and cartilage before her sharp claws pierced into his skull – slamming his head against the block of rock, creating a large hole in it as she backed away.

The undead sputtered, his brain going fuzzy as he limped around, the Abyssal corruption repairing the damage as he reached out for the single crossbreed that then became two crossbreeds the further he saw. That had been quite the show of strength on her side, if he wasn't about to kill her, he would have voiced how impressed he was.

Shaking his head, Argon reigned in his thoughts and looked back at Priscilla. She stood away from him patiently, awaiting his next move with blank eyes. He accepted her challenge and ran forward, starting their next bout of blows without a blade in his hands.

She watched his moves carefully, detailing the unorthodox way in which he flowed from once stance to another, never really settling on one specific method of combat. It was an interesting way to fight, probably how he had come to be so skilled as an undead. The fluidity of the moves grew faster as she remained within his range, ducking under the third palm strike he sent her way before jumping up to evade a swift leg-sweep.

He was feral, wild, and unpredictable. She was calm, analytical, and cautious. And yet… they seemed to be evenly matched.

That was… until he decided to stop holding back.

Argon huffed as she countered his fist with a swipe of her scythe. He bent his body as far back as he could, body forming a perfect arch as the powerful blade whizzed over the hair on his abdomen. She wasn't hesitant to experiment and test her opportunities. It was admirable. But that didn't mean she had the upper hand.

Rising back up, Argon began to take things up a notch. Aiming for her throat, he fired a punch that she leaned to the side to avoid. He grinned as his knuckle clipped her ear before he drew back and spun around, raising an elbow to smash into her nose.

She dropped her scythe and caught the arm, to which he then followed up by swinging his left leg at her knee. She took the bait and jumped back, allowing him dash forward, grab her shoulder with both hands and lean in with a knee aimed for her stomach. Her small but strong hands stopped it before she blew a breath of ice into his face at point blank range.

Argon stumbled back and she swooped down to pick up her scythe when a wave of dizziness overcame her. The undead managed to recover from the cheap shot when he saw her almost lose her foot and smiled. Running back to her side, he planted three palm strikes against her body that numbed her right arm and buckled her knee before he kicked her to the floor. It seemed his previous blow had finally taken affect.

The ears contained fluid that kept the body's sense of gravity level. If there were to be any blow to one of those small appendages, a person's equilibrium would be shot, making them vulnerable.

Argon sniffed as he drew a Painting Guardian Sword. This bout had been entertaining. Now he would see if her tail could also be fashioned as a blade like the many other dragons he had slain.

Priscilla shook her head to ease the dizziness. That had been a clever move on his part, but he would need to do more than that if he wanted to end her – not that he would give him the chance.

Looking up, she saw him a second before he swung a wedged dagger her way. Priscilla snapped her head back, feeling the cold steel just prickle against her throat as she rolled back and rose to her feet, rushing the undead as he spun elegantly, parting the air with that sharp blade of his.

She blocked the first strike, watched him twirl into a second and bent her body away from it before arcing her scythe up the intercept the third strike. Argon grunted when her scythe impaled his left wrist, his right flaring up with Dark Pyromancy as he powered through the ravenous magic.

She watched his fist approach and twisted her scythe roughly, hearing his scream as his hand broke and tore off from his hand when she jerked the shaft of her weapon. The flame in his hand poofed out of existence and she twirled the scythe, sheering off his right arm from the black-veined shoulder down.

Crimson blood sprayed from both wounds as he was disarmed – in the literal sense – watching as he fell to the ground, body taut as the scream in his throat struggled to exit his mouth. The veins on his neck stood out against his leathery skin and he let out a roar of agony before her scythe flashed once more.

_SHLINK_

And then there was silence.

**(*Fight song ends*)**

* * *

Argon blinked as he stared at the bonfire in front of him, filled with a mixture of anger, elation, pain, and most importantly, confusion.

He had just been killed. That was not surprising to him since he had had the opportunity to die many times before. And even though with each death, he lost apart of himself, this time felt oddly different.

Perhaps it was because he had been killed by his assumed-to-be-dead companion. Could he even call her that when he tried to kill her? _Why_ was he attempting to kill her in the first place? Was it out of anger? No, that would be stupid. A clash of virtues? Perhaps, but even so he doubted he would try to kill her just because she argued against one of his ideals.

Putting the question aside for a moment, he reached within himself and offered a shard of humanity to the flame softly swirling before him, sighing out as its soothing warmth restored his hollow husk to his original human form.

The Chosen Undead started down at the bonfire as he knelt there, over half his body submerged in black veins and abysmal vapour. He reached up a hand and scratched the vein-riddled side, creeped out by the feel of the stuff. Why was it this active?

"Argon," he turned his head to the soft, familiar voice he knew could only belong to one person and saw Priscilla's concerned face. He stared back perplexed; his heterochromatic eyes muddled by the strangeness of it all. Where _were_ they exactly?

Her frown turned into a relieved smile as she dropped her scythe, fell to her knees, and hugged his neck. His eyes were drawn to the weapon as it absorbed the red liquid coating it like a wet layer of paint. Was that his blood?

"I'm sorry I had to kill you." She whispered in his ear as he knelt there, still dazed from it all. Towards the end of the room, his eyes caught the sight of a wounded Seath, panting loudly as he gazed at them with sightless eyes.

Argon frowned. What was he doing here? And what had been done to him to look so bad? And then it all came crashing back to the undead, forcing his body to tense as Priscilla hugged him tighter.

He recalled everything; from the moment they entered this room to the time Priscilla had beheaded him. That was right, he had been attempting to kill her because of her sins. Sins borne from her birth, not her actions. Yes… the sin of possessing a false gods blood. As for Seath… he had done that to him, and he had nearly ended him too. But she had tried to stop him. No. She _had_ stopped him. And now she was hugging him, despite the obvious danger she was in. Could her keen eyes not see the growing Abyss on his right side, not the murder in his eyes as she feebly attempted to comfort him?

It was of not matter. She had just made it easier for him to kill her. He glanced down at her as she shut her eyes, tears pooling down her face as she apologised over and over again for having to hurt him. He noticed her smooth neck from beneath her pale locks and grinned. He had always wanted to devour a god, now he could do it literally.

Wrapping his arms around her in turn, he felt her snuggle closer, availing him better access to her jugular. He grinned before opening his mouth, sharp teeth glinting ivory as he leaned forward to tear her throat out. However, as his teeth were about to prick her skin, he stopped.

He frowned and tried to do it again, and again his body refused to follow his command. This was strange… why could he not… when she was right here… all it would take was a simple bite and then…

Suddenly, as if the world had wanted to give him confirmation, he heard a voice that echoed resolutely in his head, loud and unflinching. It was odd because it was his own voice. Again he heard it speak, a clear, precise tone that caused him to shut his jaws and be pulled into his psyche.

_"Stop."_

* * *

The past Argon stared around the mindscape in confusion, the flames on his right side snuffing out as if the room he stood in rejected such energy – and if he were being honest, that was exactly how the room operated.

Something struck him in the temple, making him stumble back and clutch his head. When he looked up again, he saw his real self stare back with his hands undoing the last clock hand wrapped around his leg.

_"Well? Are you done proving your point? Because I get it already."_

The past Argon's face lit up with a grin. **_"So… you've FINALLY returned. How does it feel to be your usual nauseating self, compared to that meek inconsistency?"_ **

The real Argon huffed, folding his arms as he looked away from himself.

**_"Aw, what's the matter now? In which way have I offended you, my current self?"_ **

Argon turned back to his past counterpart. _"You tried to kill Priscilla."_

The other him snorted, finding the reply utterly amusing. He should have guessed.

**_"As I said before, I am not you. I behave as my past self did; ignorant of the power of bonds."_ **

_"And now that she's shown you how strong they can be?"_

The past Argon frowned at that question, cupping his chin in the process. **_"Admittedly, it wasn't half bad. If I had the time to analyse it, I would. But unfortunately…"_ **

He motioned to the thick ichor dripping into the mindscape around them.

**_"I can only do one more thing for you."_ **

_"And what might that be?"_ the real Argon asked as his counterpart approached him, hand raised towards his forehead.

**_"Now that my time is up, the duty of keeping this blight at bay will fall onto your shoulders. You must not allow it to spread further than it already has, else you run the risk of sullying the good name we both share."_ **

His hand pressed flatly against Argon's brow and both men looked each other square in the eye, Heterochromatic orbs clashing.

**_"And so, my parting gift to you will be the last memory of your past. The final moments of your life before the Asylum took you. Whether you enjoy them or not is of no consequence to me."_ **

Argon said nothing as the past him closed his eyes. And then, the real Argon fell into reverie once more.

* * *

_The night was the colour of pitch as torches studded the silent streets like amber stones upon an onyx bed of rock. The villagers had all retired for the night, their stores closed-up and hearths burning brightly to ward off the freeze of the night air. Guards and sentries of the small settlement mindlessly walked about, their snoozing faces pressing against the shaft of their pikes as another uneventful evening passed by._

_Lord Stein, like the rest of his vassals, drank deeply from the stream of dreams as his form was smothered by the softness of his bed, his sheets acting as a wispy layer of slumber that allowed the Sandman more time to collect the thousands of dreams spread across such a boisterous body of inhabitants._

_In all his days of leadership, as the nobleman of this meandering town that bushed against the flanks of Carim, he had seen and done much, both cruel and kind – for both the right and wrong reasons. His actions did not lay guilt in his bread chest, nor inflate his mind with nightmares when he recalled the terrors his hands had brought upon others. Rather, he found solace in the works of his hands, for they had carved a path no other country, noble or man had ever hope to imitate. With his ideals spread to a secretive division in his ranks, he had managed to cultivate an army of invincible men, Lithecore, that struck fear into the souls of the world's enemies, and ripped clean the bandage that false godhood sought to veil humanity with, blinding them from the truth of this world._

_Indeed, kingdoms had fallen due to this twisted sense of justice and administration, but he did not care. His sword was in service of the Monarch of Carim, and his goal was devoted to the gospel all men had seemingly forgotten._

_Whether his perception of the ancient text had been warped and reshaped into a vile personification of death… was another matter entirely. All people really needed to know was that these 'gods' walking the land of Men, prophesying untruths and claiming to be Divinity were just poor imitations of the real thing. And that was why the League had been formed: to guide man into the correct… destination. And to establish a proper system of law and order, which did indeed punish the sinful, and purged the unclean._

_Speaking of, tonight was the Lithecore's final mission for now. They were to eradicate the unnecessary souls of those drawn to the filthy covenant of Fina, a seductress and the incarnate of Lust. Man would not be able to withstand such a Sin should they find her face. As it were, the only was to cleanse such men was to free their souls and banish their minds to the Dark. For once a man is given a taste of forbidden fruit, his initial Sin compels him to try some more. Thus, the League had been dispatched to kill, maim, free, and hold a grand ablution for those souls indicated as irredeemable._

_The sound of raised voices and the clatter of greaves awoke Lord Stein, his dark eyes blinking thrice before he rose from his bed, aged bones creaking under the weight of his muscles, most of which had turned to flab years ago._

_Time had changed him, much like it had changed the world. As the years passed, he had created more Lithecore, instilled his will into each one of them, and stood proud as they lead the slaughter to its knees. However, when the arrival of the Undead Curse had begun to strike the world, kingdom by kingdom, his plans had taken great turns, costing him more time than he possessed._

_As it was, he could barely make it outside of his own home. Illness had sunk its poisoned fangs into his body decades ago, and the deterioration of his body had rid him of many things, strength included._

_That was why he had left everything to the Commander of his forces, the only man who embodied his will, his goal, and his self so completely. Along with his servant Covance, they would bring his plans to fruition, despite his ailing body. Slowly, they would make Carim greater than its former self – whilst simultaneously releasing these so-called gods from their thrones. For an army of individuals fiercer than the legend of the Darkwraiths was a force prepared to take the heads of Divinity and hang them on pikes._

_"You seem **so** satisfied with yourself right now." _

_Stein snapped his head around, eyes searching through the darkness for the originator of that voice._

_"Now, **now**… theirs is no cause for alarm. My **Lord**." _

_"A… Argon?" Stein croaked before breaking into a fit of coughing. It seemed even his voice had been eaten by his disease. How fitting. That even the strong must become weak… before they are granted eternity._

_"Why… why are you **here**?" he asked in confusion. _

_"Oh, just walking the **fallen** is all." _

_Lord Stein frowned at his meaning as his subordinate stepped into the thin trail of moonlight, illuminating his coppery skin, wrinkled, and mangled by the Darksign. The noble gasped and fell back, his back hitting the headboard of his bed with a dull thud._

_"Y-Y-Your face…" he wheezed, attempting to regain his lost energy as he began a new fit of choking and dry heaving._

_" **Yes**, I know. It looks atrocious. But isn't that how an atrocity **should** __look?"_

_He received no answer as Stein battled to breathe, laboured breaths coming out through his nose as he fisted his chest._

_Argon sighed as he sat down at the foot of the bed. "You know, you never did tell me **why** you killed her." _

_"Haa-Ugh…. Haa-Ugh… wh-who?"_

_"Come now. You remember… Eliana."_

_Lord Stein froze before looking back at his Commander. That name had never been uttered in **many** long years. In fact, the mere fact that Argon knew it was shocking enough to the weakened Lord. _

_"It always occurred to me that **her** practice of the Gospel you spread was cleaner. Purer, even. It did not tell of the countless lives one would have to take, but the one's a person would have to **save** to ensure proper honour and obedience to the Faith." _

_Stein watched the outline of Argon creep up closer to him as he sat on the bed. A soft patting sound reached the older man's ears and he looked down to see something falling from his subordinate's waist. Without hesitation, he reached down to touch it, only for his fingers to become slick with moisture. He brought his hand back and rubbed the substance between his fingers, frowning in confusion when the sharp scent of blood finally reached his nose, suddenly filing his bedchamber as he was made aware of two very important things: Argon was covered in blood, and his mansion was suspiciously quiet for a Thursday evening._

_"Did you ever **regret** what you did to her? When you allowed two of your royal guards to have their **way** with her. Did it not feel **odd** to see your significant other suffer like so before you had her killed?" _

_Stein's mouth dropped in shock. How could he have known that? How did he piece together a secret not even Covance had access to?_

_"Oh? You want to know how I figured it out?" Argon chuckled, slowly lifting his legs and straddling the old man, pinning him to the bed – not that he could have escaped if he wanted to._

_"It was easy, really. I knew from the moment you arrived to take me **away** from her…" _

_Stein's breathing rapidly increased. He was trapped here, secluded by his own personification, living on borrowed time before his clock ultimately stood still._

_He knew he couldn't call for help. Argon would have already slaughtered every living thing within his abode **hours** before entering his chamber. He also doubted Covance was still alive at this point. If anything, he would be surprised if the man that had tortured the boy more than he had remained alive to see tomorrow. It was just too unreal to imagine. _

_"But I suppose the past does not matter anymore." Argon sighed as he stroked Stein's cheek with his knuckles. The feeling of dry, decomposed skin rubbing against his flesh was disgusting to the noble, and he attempted to turn his face away only for Argon to cup his face and stare at him with those empty eye sockets of his. He had never known the Undead Curse could be this terrifying._

_"The rest of the Lithecore are dead, so are all your men in the village." Stein's eyes widened. He had killed **all** of them?! It wasn't an impossible feat for someone like him but the mere fact that he had done it sent shivers down his spine. _

_"Oh, and the villagers won't be needed to prepare for Winter either. I've sent them all somewhere **warm**, if Hell could be called that." _

_Stein gasped, just what kind of monster had he created?!_

_"All that's left… is **you**." He chuckled again before sniffing deeply, making Stein shudder as his Commander brought his face closer. "I think I'm going to **enjoy** this… just like you **enjoyed** killing Eliana. I guess I take after my parent in that regard; killing, I mean." _

_"M-M-Mikel… **please…**" _

_The Lithecore Commander paused an inch from Stein's face. Both men said nothing for a good long while before Argon began to speak._

_"You… will **not**… **EVER** call me by that name." his voice had gone cold, and his fury had unmasked itself, causing Stein to wet himself as he whimpered below the Commander. _

_Argon sniffed the air a single time and laughed. It was a soft laugh. But it carried a dark humour with it that forced tears in Lord Stein's eyes._

_"How ironic. But at least you know what's **coming** to you. It's just a shame you aren't **prepared** for death like you **prepared** the rest of us… but hypocrites are many whilst good men are **few**." _

_The newly turned undead rasped as his mouth reached the old man's ear, his breath ghosting over Stein like freezing ice._

_"It's time you join your forces in the **purgatory** you created for yourselves." _

_He licked his dry lips with a rotten tongue, dripping thick saliva onto the mattress as he prepared himself for the ultimate revenge. And this time he wouldn't even need to use his hands to do so._

_"Farewell then… **father.**" _

_Argon's teeth tore into Lord Stein's throat, ripping flesh and muscle from bone as he devoured his Lord, his Master, his father alive. All the while, Stein screeched for help, his pleas falling on deaf ears in a town of corpses._

_"AHHH! AAHHHHGH! **AAAAHHHHHHGGH!-"** _

**_SPELCH!_ **

_Argon swallowed the portion of flesh that swam inside of his mouth, lifting his head skyward as blood flooded his neck, falling into the open mouth of Lord Stein._

_"And now… you've been avenged… **mother.**" _

_He looked back down at the corpse below him, a duty to purge the remains of this filthy sinner from the world compelling him to launch back down and begin his feast anew. He would fully devour the very memory of the man that was his Master, swallow the liquid of the leader that took everything away from him, crunch the bones of the father that deceived him, and suck up the brain matter of the **fool** parading around as God's advocate. _

_After today there would only be **one **Lithecore remaining in this world. And he would smite the gods himself, using the very weakness of Man to anchor him towards his goal; complete **annihilation**. _

* * *

Argon blinked as he stared back at his other self, the memories of his past making his head fuzzy.

_"So…"_ he began. _"That's why I eat people when I go rabid."_

The past him nodded. **_"I was captured by followers of Lloyd a few years later. From what I recall, they discovered me slaughtering an entire warship of Way of White clerics en route to a far away land. The reverie is hazy, but I was thrown into the Asylum soon after. As for how much time I spent there before you came along, I am not sure."_ **

_"Okay, so what exactly should I do with all this? And why are you speaking as if we're not the same person?"_

**_"Because we AREN'T the same. The child, Mikel and the Lithecore Commander Argon are beings you do not need to worry about. They are your past, yes, but your human days. You were born in the Asylum as an undead. Thus, their sin's do not fall onto your shoulders."_ **

_"Then why tell me about it in the first place?"_

The other him gave Argon a bemused grin. **_"I already told you, its so that you can be prepared for when the time is right."_ **

The mindscape they both stood in darkened for a moment and the past him sagged, his face growing tired as he hunched over.

_"Hey, are you okay?"_ Argon asked out of concern. He knew he should hate this side of himself, yet for the life of him, all the wanted to do was prevent him from leaving.

**_"Hehe… you possess her heart. Despite having no affiliation to Eliana… you epitomise what I would have been like… were I to live under her love."_ **With a deep sigh, the past Argon straightened his spine and tilted his head to the side, a warm smile on his face.

**_"So, now you know… and I can die with hope in my heart."_ **

_"Alright, man. That ain't the least bit funny."_ Argon folded his arms in annoyance as the other him laughed. Where did the guy get off teasing Oscar like that?

**_"Forgive me, famous last words, I suppose…"_ **he rolled his shoulders and nodded, as if making up his mind.

**_"Well then… farewell."_ **

As his other self began to make slow but deliberate steps toward the end of the corrupted room, Argon couldn't help but ask a question he had never been able to ask before.

_"Why are you helping me?"_ the other him turned back round with a raised eyebrow. _"You'll cease to exist if you leave now, won't you?"_

**_"Oh, I'm not helping you. This is entirely for my own sake. And partly because you need to be ready when HE arrives."_ **

_"Ready?"_ Argon repeated. _"Ready for what? And who?"_

The other him merely smiled wider.

**_"Haven't you been listening to a word I've said? Or have you grown deaf as fear and dread clogged your head from logical thought?"_ **

Before Argon could question him again, his darker counterpart turned around fully and began walking away. Where exactly he was walking to, Argon did not know.

_"Why? Why help me when you know it'll cause you to fade away?!"_

The other him shrugged. **_"Perhaps I enjoyed the spotlight."_ **

Silence reigned between them as Argon's past self began approached his extinction. It was bittersweet to see, yet he couldn't allow himself to miss another opportunity to speak his mind, whether or not he was currently too much of a coward.

_"What will I do after you're gone?"_

**_"Whatever the hell you want."_ **

Argon bit back the sadness he felt. Even though he hated this vestige of himself, the one that had tortured him, haunted his mind and made him fear his own shadow at night, he was still apart of him. This departure… it wasn't a triviality; it was a final goodbye. He knew so from the heaviness in his other self's voice. And though he knew he should be glad his slumber would be peaceful from now on, the small part of him that mourned for the eventual loss of a piece of himself demanded one last exchange of words.

_"I'll need you after this is over. I'm still not strong enough yet."_

He heard the other him chuckle loudly. **_"No, you won't."_ **

_"How can you be so sure?!"_

The other him raised a hand as he walked further and further away, disappearing from sight all too quickly.

**_"Because anything you lost in the present, means you didn't really need it in the future."_ **

And then he was gone. And only Argon remained.

* * *

The undead blinked for what felt the infinite time today. The events of his mindscape making more things confusing to him as he pondered on who exactly his alter ego had been preparing him for exactly. Besides that, why was it always him that had to endure these mind breaking moments of despair? Did he look like some shy dark-haired boy that worked in a coffee shop that catered for man-eating monsters?

The tightening of arms around his neck and the scent of one of the most pleasant fragrances he had ever come across snapped his mind back to reality as he noticed the sobbing crossbreed in his arms. Guilt washed over his heart as she embraced him for dear life. How long had he left her to cry her eyes out like that? How badly had his shift to insane hurt her mentally? He already knew what he had done when his other self was in control, he had witnessed it all through his own eyes, fighting to free himself and stop this madness from continuing.

"Hey," he whispered and she raised her head up to stare into his eyes. Gone were the abysmal vapour that permeated from his skin, and the ravenous hunger of his hollowed self no longer wished to dine on half dragon girls today – although… he _did_ wonder what such a thing would taste li-

_Nope! Don't even go there, you dirty perv!_

"A-Argon…" her eyes held such warmth in them. Such life despite the fact that he tried to kill her. After all he had said and done to her… yet she still clung to him out of relief, joy, and happiness – as if just seeing him being… well, him, was all she had ever wanted. He wondered how he had found someone as precious as her in his life.

"Yeah, its really me this time."

The tears in her eyes fell harder as she smiled from ear to ear, her small face glowing in the dim light as she displayed her heart for him to see.

"It is? Th-That's so g-good to h-h-hear…" she said and he brushed away her tears with his thumb. He felt like stabbing himself in the heart for doing this to her, making her worry to such extremes that she was forced to _kill_ him in order to save his life. And yet, he had never been so grateful for anything else this ugly world had given him – save for Eliana, even of his other self insisted she wasn't connected to him.

"You can stop the water works now… I'm finally back. No need for tears, right?" he tried to be cheerful about it. She agreed with his words.

"R-Right." She said and sniffed. He smiled at her before hugging her back, instantly feeling her slender arms grip his neck for dear life.

He lowered his forehead against hers as he began to speak, the emotions he felt making his voice crack and go soft.

"Thank you…"

She lifted her head a fraction, motioning for him to go on.

"It looks like… It looks like you were the one to save me… this time." His resolve broke as tears of his own began to fall, his arms pulling her closer as he wept.

"Th-Th-Thank you. Thank you s-so much."

Priscilla smiled softly as she allowed him to unbottle everything, from the pain brought on by this arduous journey, to the battles he waged within himself. She knew how hard it must have been for him, especially when he had begun this quest to no one by his side, those friends he _had_ made along the way all veering off into separate directions to his own.

She was happy though. Because if he had never come to her prison, battered and alone, she would have never gotten the chance to meet him. He would never have been able to save her, to ask her to accompany him as he took on the task his very own savour had placed into his hands before passing. And although they had gone through so much pain, trouble, and difficult trials, he was still here with her. He was still _him_, despite his flaws. For that, she was grateful.

"No need for tears, huh?" she chuckled as he huffed. Priscilla shook her head and hugged him tighter. "You're a hypocrite, Argon."

He laughed into her hair, despite himself. If only she knew how much.

Their touching moment continued with more tears and cuddling, that is, until a groan from yonder broke the silence and Havel sat up, rubbing the back of his bald head with a crumbling gauntlet as he cussed from the pain he was in.

"Ah, for Lloyd's sake…" he looked around him for his Dragontooth but couldn't find it. Strange, he had thought it was right next to him, along with that one-hundred-year-old bottle of wine he was drinking. What was it called again? Frost-White? No, Bite? Frostbite wine? And wasn't he meant to be in Oolacile right about now? As he recalled that shmuck Argon who had spontaneously possessed a twin was about to fight Artorias in a match for the right to… marry a Lords' Blade? Wait, wait, wait… now he _must_ be drunk. Argon was only smitten for Priscilla, and she was currently playing a game of chance with Gough whilst Gwyndolin made them some delicious grilled fish to eat. Wait… Gwyndolin could cook?

Yeah… 'course she could. The same way Gwynevere was still busy shagging a humanoid Seath in her chambe-

"WHAAAT?!" he screamed as he recognised where he was and what in Izalith was going on.

"Geez, gramps," Argon wiped his eyes as Priscilla untangled herself from him, a slight blush on her cheeks as she realised that she had been hugging Argon… around the neck… whilst his shirt was off…

"What, you got a problem, runt?" the Archbishop shouted as he struggled to stand up. Forget feeling too weak to walk, how was he still alive after that blast from Seath?

"Yeah, your non-stop complaining. Why don't you just _tell_ us the next time you're too tired to fight your nemesis, we'll understand that old age is bad for your health."

"What was that?!" Have screamed.

"What did it sound like?!" Argon screamed back.

"I _know_ you did not just call me old!"

"Pull back the flab covering your ears and you might be able to hear clearly!"

"Oh, _now_ you're calling me fat?!"

"Hey, if the boot fits, wear it. Although, in your case, I doubt even your bunioned toe could squeeze through."

"That's it! C'MERE AND SAY THAT TO MY FACE!"

"I AM! OR ARE YOU _BLIND_ TOO?!"

"YOU TAKE THAT BACK!" Havel screeched.

"NAH-UH!" Argon shrieked back.

"Hmph."

"Hmph!"

"HMPH!"

" _HMPH!"_

"STOP COPYING ME!" the Archbishop wailed.

"NO, YOU STOP COPYING _ME_!" Argon replied.

Priscilla merely hung her shoulders and shook her head, a bright smile on her face. After everything they had just been through and the two of them acted like children. What a wonderful family she was a part of.

Seath listened to everything that was going on with the three before him as he managed to complete the basic stage of healing for his many wounds. It was unreal, watching his nemesis and the Chosen Undead act as if nothing had happened in the hours they had all spent fighting to the death.

But what was more astonishing to the paledrake, that his own superior brain had literally shut down to process, was the fact that his daughter had saved his life. It was unheard of, implausible, and purely outrageous. His offspring, the one possessing the Lifehunt ability, who he had experimented on and tortured before throwing into the Painted World as a prisoner had stepped in to protect his already depleting life.

His first thought on the matter had been to use the opportunity she had given him to kill both the undead, her, _and_ his nemesis in one fell swoop. However, as he 'watched' her through his aural sense, and felt the emotions she held within her chest as she battled to save an undead thought to be a lost cause, he was reminded of the words she had spoken to him before he had set his ambush. Those tear-filled words, dripping with feeling that had made his cold heart beat just once.

"I don't want to see you die," she had said before he left her. A sign that despite what he had done to her, she still felt compelled to see the good in him. Him, Seath the Scaleless.

It was stupidity in his blind eyes, and yet he had not made a move since she had intervened, intent on watching as her growth skyrocketed to amazing lengths, all in the name of an undead who's destiny it was to burn for another eternity.

And now… here they all were, happily laughing together as if the end of the world was not around the corner, as if all this misery and premonition of Dark was simply a fairy tale. It awoke something in him, a deep memory, one that he had repressed for eons now. A time after the War whereby he had been a curious dragon, after the secrets of life, not just the source of immortality.

He heard Priscilla's laughter and was once again assaulted by the reveries he had hoped would never return to haunt him. Those of a young goddess, her face that shone like the very sun in the sky, a face that he was able to see despite having a lack of sight. He recalled her laughter, her warm, comforting laughter that eased his busy mind as he was actually seen outside during the first few centuries of Anor Londo. Seath breathed out shakily as he remembered what Gwynevere's voice had been like. Not like the illusion above the Throne Room which he had helped craft, but a light, airy tone that spoke of gentle showers in the sun and warm radiance even in the harshest of storms.

He had been a different entity back then, whether he wanted to believe it or not. Still an obnoxious and prideful dragon, which was one of the other reasons Havel had taken a dislike for him, but still different, nonetheless. One that had not lusted to live forever, but simply to be _remembered_ forever.

"Argh, okay… we gotta sort this beef out." Argon quipped as Priscilla helped him stand up.

"I'd say so as well." Havel grunted roughly as he leaned on his Dragontooth for support, Priscilla once again helping him find the weapon. "I'll go first, I hate your attitude."

"Uh, good for you but that's not what I meant, old man." Havel blinked and turned toward where Argon was pointing. His sight was filled with scaleless dragon and he curled his lip, turning away instantly and hobbling toward the bonfire.

"Wha- where are you going?" the undead asked him as Havel brushed passed the two of them.

"Where does it look like? I'm half dead and my armour's broken, I need to rest up."

"What about Seath?" Argon frowned. Did he miss something here or was the old man not comprehending the situation after a few solid knocks to the head?

The ex-Bishop paused before growling and waddling off faster. "Do whatever the heck you want with 'em! Leave me out of it!"

A confused undead and a grateful crossbreed watched him go before Argon turned back to his companion. "The hell did you do to him?"

Priscilla placed a finger on her lips with a smile.

"Not telling."

The undead frowned before a grin sprang up against his monochromatic features. He didn't mind not knowing. As long as they got that damn Lord Soul so they could hit the road already, all this crystal was giving him a headache.

It took them a few minutes but the managed to reach Seath, who was currently trying to reattach his severed tail. Whilst his Primordial Crystal ensured he could regrow limbs at a rapid rate, the time spent to grow one before he created another crystal to retain his immortality with would take _years._ Even if he just attempted to regrow one after harnessing the power of a secondary Primordial Crystal, the healing process wouldn't be perfect, and he would prefer it if his insides were healed _without_ any scar tissue.

"That'd make a good greatsword." Argon commented, nodding at the severed tail in Seath's hands. Both Priscilla and Seath stared at him, one with a glare and other in shock as he rubbed the back of his head sheepishly.

"Just saying…he-he-he…"

The slap the crossbreed landed on his bare arm told him to shut up before he pissed the dragon off yet again. And he smiled like an idiot as he continued to scratch his head.

"Aha… right, sorry about that." He began on a different note. "And sorry for… you know, messing you up and stuff. Lost my cool for a minute."

Both father and daughter sweat-dropped at that. That was the understatement of the century.

"But anyway… I hope that we can get passed all this in-fighting. I mean, we only came here for your shard of Gwyn's soul."

Ah. Seath recalled that day well. Gwyn had dropped by his Archive when he was neck-deep in research, attempting to find a solution to aide in preserving the First Flame when the fool of a King had dug into his own chest, snapped off a fistful of his burning soul and told him to hold onto it as he went and sacrificed himself for the greater good. He had cursed the Lightning Lord's name for making him do so much pointless investigating.

"So, uh… if we could just have that shard… we can be off in a matter of seconds."

"Argon! Behave yourself!" Priscilla scolded.

"What, I'm just saying!"

The paledrake looked down at the Chosen Undead with his aural sense. His power was magnificent, even without the Abyss possessing over half his body. And that unknown Pyromancy he had used was untraceable as far as he could see. If he weren't feeling nostalgic right now, he would have loved to run a few tests on the undead, see how he ticked and what else he could do. But alas, he was passed that now, and he was too weak to even bother fighting.

Lowering an open hand, Seath channelled out a brilliant orb from within himself, the sphere of power burning a lovely orange as it reached the size of Argon's head times two. The undead gulped as he stared at the thing.

_Yup, it'll be a hassle fitting this one in the box, alright._

"Uh, thanks." Argon said to the dragon as he took the soul shard with both hands, only to jump and toss the soul fragment around in both hands.

"Ooh! Hot, very hot. Extremely hot!"

He managed to flick his bottomless box out of one of his pouches and kick the lid open as it expanded, but he wept for the many weapons which would most likely melt under the intense heat of such an item.

After he was done, he turned back to Seath and Priscilla, awkwardly trying to find a few words that would make this situation somewhat less weird. Eventually, he just ended up saying the first thing that came to mind.

"Sorry for wreaking your Archive, it's a lovely place. A few secret doors, some moving stairwells… a few BL novels that shouldn't be there… I recommend burning them when you have the time, only if you want to, of course." He chuckled awkwardly; he was running out of things to say.

"Also, I killed a lot of your subordinates. I'd like to say sorry about that but… I kinda needed the souls… gotta enhance my resistance to poison and magic, ya' know… don't know why I can't just do that with good 'ole elbow-grease but… ya' know."

Seath and Priscilla stared at him with blank faces. He broke out with a thin sheen of sweat before promptly turning on his heel and walking away, waving back as he speed-walked toward the bonfire Havel was currently repairing his armour at.

"I'll let the two of you catch up, gotta spend my souls, bye!"

Priscilla and Seath turned back to one another and stood in silence for a good few moments before the Chosen Undeads scream rang out again.

"Hey! What happened to all my souls?!"

"Pipe down, would ya'!"

_CLONK!_

"Ouch! You old buffoon, that hurts!"

"Keep talkin' and you'll be in for a _world_ of hurt when I'm done with you!"

The two undead began bickering amongst themselves and Seath sweat dropped for the second time. _That_ was the man his daughter was in love with? He would have been better off dead.

"Thank you, Father."

The Duke caught the soft tinkle of the crossbreed's voice as she smiled at the ground.

"I really did mean what I said before. I don't want to see you die."

He looked at her, murky eyes peering at her aura. She was almost just like her mother, overly forgiving as she was caring. Loyal to a fault and unnaturally strong. The only difference between the two of them was that Gwynevere had acted cowardly whilst Priscilla remained steadfast, never once losing hope in what she believed in.

For a moment he wondered what she would have said seeing what he was as the crossbreed who he had done sin to actually thanked him for agreeing to a ceasefire. Sometimes he wondered what he had done to be given something as precious as this.

Without waiting for her to say another word, Seath picked up the severed tail he had been tinkering with before and began to slither out of the cave pocket, intending to reach his study to create another Primordial Crystal immediately. He had already spent his life researching and perfecting the art of Crystal Release. Theoretically speaking, it wouldn't be as difficult to create a second one after he had perfected the first.

Priscilla watched him go and bowed deeply. She was grateful he was still alive, and even if he never did see her as his child, she would still be happy. Because he had been able to change, to shift away from that cold Duke that sought power, to a sober dragon that honestly felt the emptiness in her heart, even if it was for a but a moment. Right then and there, he had filled that void in her soul that had remained empty for so long.

Seath flapped his wings to get some momentum going as he prepared to leave the Crystal Cave. He had done what needed to be done, and all that was left was to repair what was damaged… and decide what he was going to do with this unstoppable flow of emotions he didn't realise he possessed. Whether what his daughter had done for him was good or bad, he did not know. The only thing that was clear, was this this time, it was _him_ that needed to change.

* * *

Havel stared at Argon as he sat down with a sigh, having _finally_ collected all of this discarded weapons from around the now dilapidated room. He had explained to both himself and Priscilla the reason for his lapses in personality in the past, and from where it had come from. And whilst that made the pieces of the puzzle fit together for the Archbishop, there was still one thing that bothered him.

"Say, Argon."

"Hmm?" the undead hummed, his mouth full of roast pork. Havel frowned. Where did he get food from all of a sudden? Wait a-

"Are you eating the _same_ boar you killed yesterday?"

"Yeth." The undead nodded, the crossbreed to his right also munching down on a shank of cooked meat.

"Not you as well, Priscilla!"

The crossbreed stared at him innocently with those emerald eyes of hers as her tail slapped against the floor in delight. "Woudth oo like a phishe?"

Havel turned green as he held back the bile in his throat.

"No, thank you."

He shivered, no matter how good it smelt. He refused to eat it.

"Like I was saying, Argon, you said you already travelled to Oolacile, right?"

The undead nodded, "Got sucked in by Manus to some time in the past."

"And you say that you defeated a corrupted Artorias and braved the Abyss, defeating Manus soon after and saving Princess Dusk, yes?"

"Mm-hmm. I was _so_ heroic that time." Priscilla giggled as he stabbed his pork bone forward like a sword.

"That's all well and fine but there's one thing I still don't get."

Argon and Priscilla turned to face him in confusion.

"After you killed Manus, the Abyss stopped spreading, effectively saving the rest of the world from its scourge, right?"

"Yep, exactly like that. The Abyss is never coming to Lordran… unless we usher in the Age of Dark… or something like that…"

"So… how is it you came to be corrupted by the Abyss then? Did killing Primeval Man cause a blight to be cast on you or something?"

"Oh, this." Argon lifted up his light hand riddled with black veins. "That just happened after I absorbed Manus' soul."

Nobody said anything as the Chosen Undead happily sorted through the items in his inventory, unaware of the bubbling volcano he had just allowed to brew.

"YOU DID WHAT, YOU FOOL?!"

"ARGON!"

"What? His soul was literally a sprite of humanity. A _tainted_ shard of humanity, but humanity no less!"

"Then why did you absorb it, you utter idiot?!" Havel slapped a hand against his head.

"I needed some humanity, okay? There wasn't any around and I was half-hollow."

"And did his soul end up giving you any humanity?" Priscilla asked curiously.

Argon flopped forward in disappointment.

"Not a single one."

"SO WE'RE IN THIS MESS BECAUSE YOU WERE AN IDIOT LIKE ALWAYS?!"

"OI, SAY IT, DON'T SPRAY IT, YA' BALD GYSER!"

"YOU WANNA RUMBLE? I'LL KICK YOUR BRAINLESS BEHIND SIX WAYS TO SUNDAY!"

"BRING IT ON, YA' WALKING FOSSIL!"

"ARGON!"

"HAVEL!"

"Guys, can't we just relax for once?" Priscilla's plea fell on deaf ears as the two undead began another argument she would soon have to finish. But for the life of her, she couldn't help but smile. It was another wonderful day with her friends, after all.

* * *

**Okkkkkkaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!**

**I had to cut this 'final' chapter in two because, well… you can see why. Please forgive me for being away for so long. I won't annoy you with my excuses (even if they _are_ valid) so please accept this double feature to end the Chrysalis Arc which includes far more content than I usually write. **

**One of the major setbacks I had was writing the battle scenes for Argon and Seath, don't ask me why. And although I did mess up on making Seath this OP character with an unmatched intellect, he WILL be redeeming himself later on.**

**Also, for those of you that wanted to see either Argon, Priscilla or Havel kill the paledrake… yeah, too bad. He stays alive because he's Seath. 'Nuff said, ya' scrub.**

**There are a lot of things I'd like to explain but my brain cannot function so well because I am literally falling asleep whilst typing, so! I'll keep this short until my next chapter.**

**Argon possesses Dark Pyromancy now. Yay! I did my best to utilise his hollow-form, willpower to grow stronger and Sin that Gwyndolin bestowed upon him. My guess is that attacking a god makes you reach Sin level 100 or over, so that helped in bolstering its potency. If I did mess up that part, please forgive me, I took my notes directly from a wiki site since I don't have DS 2 to play. Let me just say that he will _not_ be using that Pyromancy a lot through out the story because he's already plenty strong, and since he has to battle the abyssal corruption on his own… I doubt he'd have the control for Dark Pyromancy. **

**Oh, just to let you know, the chapters will flow according to my original one-week update schedule (at least… it was around a week. About 9 days max to publish new content in the beginning). After writing this out completely, I have overcome a BIG case of Writer's Block and have _so_ much to show you guys. **

**Lastly, Argon's past. So, if I didn't make it clear before, the point was to show that Lord Stein is actually Argon's father. This explains why Stein kept Argon in his reconditioning program for years instead of a few months and why he didn't just throw him away when he became rebellious to his orders. Argon devours Stein out of revenge for killing his mother and so that he can personally be freed from his years of torment, incidentally, becoming exactly like his father in later years with some fine adjustments. He slaughters the entire town because well… he was rabid after just turning undead so he needed to test out his abilities. There will be no more moments when he loses his mind, and that's because the vestige of the 'past' him faded when he used the last of his consciousness to take over Argon's mind and try and kill Seath. In essence, the 'past' Argon was actually good, although he came across as bad. He was preparing Argon. bum-bum-bum…**

**I _do_ have greater plans for Argon regarding his past self. You can already guess who I'm talking about so… get ready. **

**I probably left out a lot of stuff here but I'll save that for the next chapter if I remember. As always feel free to ask me what you didn't understand in the reviews and I'll be happy to answer.**

**Also, I'll edit both chapters at a later date. Right now… I just can't.**

**Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to bloody sleep. On with ze snoozing!**


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